


Preacher Comfort

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings in Author's Notes, Alternative Universe - Human, Alternative Universe - Medical, Asexual Castiel, Asexuality Spectrum, Awkward Boners, Beekeeper Castiel, Castiel Has a Crisis of Faith, Castiel Needs a Hug, Cats and Kittens, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean in Glasses, Embarrassed Dean, First Kiss, Fluff, Flustered Dean, Food Sharing, Halloween, Holding Hands, Homoromantic Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Castiel, M/M, Meg is Secretly a Nice Person, No Sex, Nurse Dean, POV Alternating, Priest Castiel, Smart Dean, Snarky Meg Masters, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester works as a nurse at an after-hours medical clinic. He's a champion at what he does, but for him, professionalism has its pitfalls: good-looking patients make him flustered. Luckily, his fly-by-night infatuation evaporates within minutes, since most patients only swing by once. Castiel (fondly known as Bee Sting Guy around the clinic) is one of those iniquitously handsome fellows – and he keeps coming back. He's also a Catholic priest, 94% asexual, and in need of the tender love that happens to be Dean's speciality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preacher Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Mentions of past child abuse, past self-harm and depression, blood and treatment of injuries, probably some second-hand embarrassment, off-screen violence (stabbing), past Dean/women, one brief mention of potential Dean/Victor, blasphemous language, plus the accidental assassination of two honeybees.  
>  Please note that misinformation about asexuality is re-evaluated by the end of the fic.
> 
> Beta'd by [winglesschester](http://winglesschester.tumblr.com/), who yet again proved herself as an outstanding specimen of the human race, equipped with medical know-how, kindness, and speed-editing skills, all of which were invaluable to the last-minute finalisation of this fic. I thank her profusely.
> 
> Apparently I played pick-&-mix with tropes I used in my other stories, and it resulted in this. If you've read the A sides and the B sides of my fics, this one will seem much like a remix tape. Enjoy!

Dean yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He squinted at the clock on the other side of the clinic’s empty waiting area, but he’d already taken his contact lenses out so he could barely see the numbers. “Hey, what time is it?” he asked Meg, whose fingers didn’t stop tapping away at her keyboard, not even for a second.

“Ten to eleven,” Meg replied, face hidden behind her wavy, dark hair. “There’s a patient waiting in the back. Bee sting. Here.” She picked up a clipboard and offered it over her shoulder, still typing with her left hand.

“Aw, c’mon, can’t you take this one?” Dean complained. “My feet are trying to murder me, I feel like I’m walking on hot coals.”

“It’s ten minutes, Dean,” Meg snapped, finally breaking her attention from her glowing screen filled with medical forms, setting her ever-baleful stare on Dean. “Ten minutes and you can throw the asshole out and go home. And then _I_ can go home. Just do us both a favour and suck it up.”

Dean smirked at her, taking the clipboard when she stabbed him with it. “Jeez. I still stand by what I said last week.”

“You said a lot last week. You don’t actually shut up all that much.”

“I mean that you should do motivational speaking. There was a decent foundation to your argument, if you ignore the whole thorny serpentine thing you’ve got going.”

Meg rolled her eyes and turned back to her screen. “Move your pretty ass, Winchester. That patient’s waiting.”

Dean traipsed down the hallway towards the patient treatment area, grinning to himself.

It was much brighter in the patients’ room than in the waiting room; here fluorescent lights gleamed off the white walls, casting reflections on the speckled blue linoleum. There were three wheeled gurneys here permanently, all in a row.

One baby-blue curtain was drawn shut around the first gurney, and Dean could hear the shuffling sound of someone moving about inside its privacy. “Be with you in a moment,” he called to them. “Just gotta get my x-ray specs.” He blinked hard, forcing away the bleariness in his eyes. He went for the staff filing cabinet in the corner of the room, situated below the poster about children’s vaccinations.

With the clipboard tucked under his arm, Dean fished in the pocket of his green scrubs and pulled out a key to unlock the top drawer. Inside was his messenger bag: he reached into it and he grabbed his glasses case from between his reading book and his car keys. He put on his glasses and poked them firmly up his nose so the thick frames made windows of perfectly clear vision.

He locked the cabinet again, then turned to wash his hands. Water, soap, scrubbing. It was ritualistic, and as always, he gave himself an incredibly thorough clean. Drying his hands on a paper towel, he approached the closed curtain. “Knock-knock,” he said.

“You can enter,” came a deep, yet honey-sweet voice. Dean tossed the damp towel into the trash and batted open the curtain with the clipboard, glancing at the single paper attached to it before looking up—

“Oh,” Dean said.

Sitting on the gurney was a topless, slim-muscled man with terracotta skin and a smooth forward curve in his spine. His elegant fingers clasped the tissue-covered leather, his straight jaw angled towards Dean. He had piercing blue eyes, and the intensity of the immediate contact flared up an Alaskan aurora between Dean’s legs.

 _Hoooooly crap,_ said Dean’s internal voice, which had never been known for its original phrasing.

Dean put the clipboard in front of his crotch. “Uh...m.”

The man blinked. “I’ve been stung by a bee.”

“Y— You’re, um. You’re not swelling. You’re— Are you swelling? Do you feel any sw— Shit.” Dean looked down and peeked under the clipboard, biting his lip when he saw some definite swelling. “ _Shit_.” His external voice had never been known for its original phrasing, either.

“The swelling is on my left shoulder,” the man said, seemingly unbothered by Dean’s flustering. The man’s eyes did sweep down Dean’s body, however, which only served to make Dean blush.

Dean reminded himself that the clinic closed in ten minutes and unless he fixed this man’s problems, his own problems would increase by precisely one irate Nurse Meg.

Stepping forward, refusing to remove the clipboard from in front of him, Dean went to the patient’s side. “Um. What’s your name?”

“Castiel,” the man said lowly, curious eyes set on Dean’s pinkening cheeks. “What’s yours?”

“Dick.”

“Is that short for—”

“Dean!” Dean stared wide-eyed at the man. “My name’s Dean. Sorry, I was— I was thinking about s-something else, I’m—” He looked away, mortified by every second that had passed in the last half-minute.

Castiel licked his lips. Dean wasn’t even looking at him, but he still wondered if Castiel had even blinked since Dean had entered.

“I assume you’re very tired, or very overworked,” Castiel said. “Perhaps both. I apologise for wasting your time so late at night. I was stung several hours ago but I couldn’t get the stinger out.”

“The stinger’s still in there?” Dean washed over with concern, which in turn gave him relief: with the focus on the task at hand, he could work through his embarrassment and inescapable attraction. He put down his clipboard on the nearest medical cabinet, then went and tugged out a fresh pair of purple nitrile gloves from the box fixed to the wall. “Let’s take a look. Bend towards me?”

Castiel rested his elbows on his black dress pants, head ducked down. Dean craned around him, and let out a fast breath when he saw the angry red swipe across Castiel’s shoulder. “Jesus Christ, that’s a bee sting all right. And yeah, it’s swollen.”

“I don’t think I’m allergic,” Castiel said.

“No, no, you’re not. Thank God. If you were, you’d have noticed by now. Anaphylaxis is fairly obvious.”

“Thank God indeed,” Castiel repeated. “Are you religious?”

Dean caught his eye, startled at the question. He was already reaching for tweezers. “No. Well, my mom is. I guess that doesn’t count.”

Castiel smiled – more of a smirk, really. He had pretty pink lips and a gentle expression. Goddamn it, he was gorgeous. Probably an eleven on the hotness scale, in a quiet, bookish kind of way.

Dean swallowed, then told Castiel to bent forward again. “What about you, you religious?” he asked, while Castiel gripped his knees and whined; Dean had located the splinter of the sting with the tip of the tweezers. The skin was fiercely sore, so it took Dean two attempts before Castiel managed not to flinch, and Dean tugged out the offending stinger.

“There you go,” Dean said, standing back and showing off the rear end of the bee, which had been left behind when it flew off to die. “That’s the little bugger. See?”

“Thank you,” Castiel panted, barely glancing at the stinger before resting his face in his hands. “I— I thought using tweezers released more venom.”

“Urban myth,” Dean said. “Fingers or tweezers do just fine. It’s not the method that matters, it’s... uh,” he cleared his throat pointedly, “how quickly you get it out that matters.”

“Ah,” the man sighed. “And yes,” he added, “I am religious. Catholic.”

“Cool,” Dean said, tossing the stinger into the hazardous waste disposal, then throwing the tweezers into the other bin for chemical cleaning. “My mom goes to church once a week, but my brother’s like, just a general monotheistic agnostic. We don’t talk about it so much as argue about it, you know? Friendly debate.”

“Okay,” Castiel said breathily, still grasping his face. He breathed hard, and his fingers skimmed up to grip at the roots of his dark brown hair.

“Hey... you okay?” Dean asked, grabbing an ice pack out of the mini-freezer, then stepping closer. “Something hurt?”

“My shoulder,” Castiel replied, looking up quickly.

Dean waved the ice pack. “That’s what this is for. C’mere.”

Castiel shuffled closer to the edge of the gurney, twisting at the hip to allow Dean to stroke the affected area with a saline wipe, then apply the cold compress.

“This oughta take the swelling down, and once it’s numb it’ll stop itching for a few hours.”

“I took an antihistamine earlier,” Castiel said. He looked tired now, almost as tired as Dean felt.

“Good,” Dean said. “Very good. That’s smart thinking.”

Castiel lowered his eyes to the floor and smiled.

Almost immediately, Dean felt himself being watched. Castiel met his eyes, and Dean’s lips parted; Castiel’s ridiculously blue pupils were twinkling with amusement.

“Are you aware your penis is visible through your clothing?” Castiel asked, totally deadpan.

Dean’s breath burst out of him as he looked down. It wasn’t subtle: a thick but tidy curve pushed up the cotton of his scrubs, set along his inner thigh. He blushed hot all over, ears burning and eyes watering. “It’s— It’s hard—”

He stuttered into silence there, and that was probably the exact worst place in the sentence to stutter into silence. He frowned and squeezed his hand into the cold pack, taking a breath to finish: “It’s hard to hide sometimes.”

The complete sentence wasn’t really all that much better, to be honest.

Castiel gazed at Dean softly now, something forgiving in his smile. “I suppose that’s the curse of being well-endowed,” he said.

Dean bit down on his lip and tried not to giggle. His wobbly smile broke through anyway, and his eyes flicked to meet Castiel’s. They shared a few seconds of strange, strange silence, and that Alaskan light between Dean’s legs kept on twirling.

Dean cleared his throat, looking back to the cold compress. “Um. Didn’t you have someone else around to do this? Take out the stinger and ice you?”

Castiel’s eyelashes swept low, and he didn’t look back up. “No. I work alone, and I live alone.”

“Friends?”

Castiel exhaled and looked away. “I— I shouldn’t be saying it – God forgive me... Um... my friends aren’t... Well, they’re not excellent friends, to be perfectly blunt. They’re good people, don’t misunderstand me, but...”

He trailed off, and his silence was a sad one.

“That sucks,” Dean said, despite not fully comprehending. “I think you need new friends, Cas.”

Castiel looked up quickly. “Yes,” he said, in a near-questioning tone. “Yes, perhaps I do.”

Dean gave him a smile. “Maybe try dating or something.”

Castiel chuckled dismissively, looking down at his lap.

“No, really,” Dean insisted, checking the sting then reapplying the ice. “I’m guessing you don’t already have a girlfriend, right?”

“Um. No.”

“Boyfriend?”

Castiel’s eyes were _insufferably_ blue. He didn’t speak, just stared.

Dean grinned and shrugged. “C’mon, if there’s no girl then I gotta at least assume there’s a boy.”

“Nobody,” Castiel said. Dean couldn’t tell if he was amused or upset; he looked both. Castiel swallowed, and an acute frown pinched between his eyebrows. “I’m actually asexual.”

Dean blinked, decoding the word. “ _A_ -sexual. No sex organs? Or like... no sexuality?”

Castiel nodded once. “Yes, the latter.” He tilted his head suddenly. “Well...”

“Well?”

Castiel began to smile, and it was a sneaky, rather bashful smile. “I consider myself ninety-four percent asexual.”

Dean’s grin curled up one cheek. “So there’s a little wiggle room there, huh?”

“No, there’s no ‘wiggling’,” Castiel shook his head. “I’m interested in kissing.”

“Interested,” Dean repeated, blinking twice. “You say that like you haven’t tried it before.”

Castiel smiled at his knees. “Working with the Church doesn’t leave a whole lot of space for my personal interests. I keep my own bees, but that’s all.”

“Working with the...? Wait, the _Church_?!”

“I’m a priest at the chapel down the road from here,” Castiel explained, glancing at the ice pack when Dean’s hand nearly slipped away. Dean rearranged the pack and pressed it down again, trying not to feel the stirred-up mayhem of emotion in his gut. “Devout Catholicism teaches its followers to reject sin. I have been ordained as a shepherd, and if I were to bend my beliefs to suit myself, what good am I to my flock?”

Dean gulped, toes curling. “That... Okay, that _really_ sucks. I mean, great for you, having a flock and whatever. But, uh. Not being allowed to kiss who you want – that’s crummy, man.”

 _Two steps forward, one step back,_ Dean thought. Castiel was attractive, and 6% interested, in theory. He flirted, sort of. But the Church bound him to chastity. Hooray.

Dean took a breath and looked away. “Listen, I think you’re gonna be fine. Keep on icing the sore bit – here, you can take the ice pack with you. Grab it off me – yep, that’s it. Press down like I did. When you get home maybe tie it on with a scarf, if you want. We’re closing in about two minutes, so...”

Dean adjusted his glasses with his cold-numb fingers, watching Castiel reach for his black shirt. He let out a breath and turned around, taking his gloves off. “Let me know when you’re dressed.”

Dean left the privacy of the curtain and swept it closed behind him. Three seconds later he realised he’d left the clipboard behind and rushed back in with a quick, “Sorry— Oh _shit_ , sorry—” and rushed back out without the clipboard.

He ran his fingers beneath his glasses, feeling heat in his cheeks. Cas had very nice back muscles, the dips on his skin arranged in a dainty butterfly shape. Dean had only seen a split-second as the priest had pulled on his shirt, but boy, it had been a good split-second.

Less than a minute later, Castiel drew back the curtain, its hooks collecting on the rail with a swift clatter of sound. “I’m dressed,” he said, and Dean turned around to look at him.

His wide shoulders were even more handsome when he was dressed up. Now Dean could see his black slacks were held up by a belt with a silver buckle, and he’d donned a black dress shirt with a white square at his throat. His right arm crossed his chest to hold the ice pack in place, a black blazer slung into the crook of his elbow. He had he been wearing the blazer, it would most likely have accentuated the absolute beauty of his broad figure even more than the shirt already did.

Castiel tilted his head.

It took a number of seconds before Dean realised he was staring at Castiel. “Freakin’—” He puffed out an exasperated breath and gestured vaguely to the entrance to the corridor. “You gotta get back to the main waiting area and pay, Meg’ll sort you out.”

Castiel looked over at the corridor. “All right.” He looked back at Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean shuffled. “Heh. No problem.”

Castiel walked to the door, and when Dean had retrieved the clipboard, he noticed Castiel was still there.

“There something else I can help you with?” Dean asked cautiously.

Castiel hesitated, actually twitching on his feet, but then he shook his head. “No.” He paused. “You were of great assistance to me, I want you to know that.”

Dean managed a small smile. “Just doing my job, man.”

Castiel smiled back. “God bless you.”

He swept out, and Dean listened to the footsteps of his smart shoes retreating down the linoleum corridor. Dean swallowed hard, grasping the clipboard. He looked down and stared at the paper clipped to it. On it was written Dr. Cain’s diagnosis and treatment plan; Castiel had seen the clinic’s resident doctor before being sent to the nurse’s station.

 _Bee sting, back of left shoulder_ , said the paper. Following that, it read, _Shows signs of emotional distress – Meg is forbidden from treating this patient._

Dean chuckled. He himself wasn’t all that confident in his own bedside manner, but he could at least agree with Dr. Cain; Meg probably would have sent Cas home in tears.

Dean sobered, wondering what had caused Castiel’s distress. Bees, probably.

He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and signed the page, then carried the clipboard back to the main entrance area. Castiel was standing at Meg’s desk, waiting patiently for her to finish typing.

Dean sighed and took the computer next to hers. They were high computers; Meg was on a stool but Dean remained standing. “Over here, buddy,” he said to Castiel.

Castiel smiled gently; Dean began to smile back but realised he was already smiling. He typed up what was on the clipboard, and handed Castiel the PIN machine. “That’ll be forty-five dollars.”

“For a checkup and an ice pack?” Castiel muttered, frowning as he put his credit card into the machine.

“Well, hey, did you think ice comes cheap?” Dean joked, taking back the machine and checking the transaction went through. “Nah, but seriously. That’s the medical system for you. At least you’re just a patient. Be glad you didn’t have to pay for five years of a nursing degree, or you’d be like me and Meg here, eating packet soup and microwaved freezer waffles for lunch another five years after graduation.”

Castiel seemed sympathetic, the dips under his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. “I hope your freezer waffles are at least somewhat tasty.”

“Eh. So-so,” Dean shrugged. “I’m saving up for a new car, so that’s where the money’s going.”

Castiel smirked, huffing out a tiny breath through his nose.

“Ugh, get a room,” Meg said. “Better yet, get a house. Little flower garden, one-point-four kids.” She turned away from her computer and grabbed the clipboard, turning away to file the paper. “Actually, you know what would be _even better_? Getting the hell out of the clinic. We closed four minutes ago.”

Castiel wore a small frown. “What’s the point of an after-hours clinic that is only open until eleven?” he asked, shaking out the ice pack and stretching his arm.

“Hospital’s down the road,” Dean said. “ER’s open all night, this place is just to tide the smaller quibbles over until the evening rush subsides over there. I work there during daylight hours, the first half of the week. And here every evening except Sunday.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, gaze following Dean as he headed for the back room again, needing his keys. “You must work very hard!” Castiel called, throwing his voice so Dean could hear him.

“I do!” Dean laughed, unlocking the cabinet and grabbing his things. “Not as hard as some, I’ll admit...” He slammed the cabinet closed and locked it, then turned the light off and closed the door as he left. He sauntered back into the main waiting area with his messenger bag bumping on his hip, grinning helplessly.

“It must be rewarding,” Castiel nodded, still clasping his jacket, ice pack dangling from his fingers. “It must be, or you wouldn’t do it.”

Dean licked his lower lip, about to shrug Castiel’s assumption off and give some half-composed quip about only doing it so the training would be worth it in the end, but there was a need in Castiel’s eyes, aching and desperate. He wasn’t looking for humbleness or flippancy, he was looking for guidance. Maybe even shepherds needed a nudge in the right direction sometimes.

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. He hung on the edge of Meg’s desk, gazing the two feet between himself and the priest. “Yeah, it’s rewarding. It’s awesome to see people get better. Find their way. Find – you know. Find their salvation. Makes the bad bits of life worth suffering through.”

Castiel got what he was really saying, Dean was sure of it. _Don’t give up, buddy._

Castiel shut his eyes and nodded, and his eyes were shining when he finally looked back. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean didn’t smile, just nodded. He reached to touch Castiel’s arm, one second of contact. “Go on,” he said. “Get yourself home and get some rest.”

Castiel nodded, turning away. He looked back at Meg, nodded to her too, then headed for the glass doors to outside.

The sweetness of warm summer air blew across the waiting room carpet, following the clunk as the door shut behind Castiel. Dean sighed, watching him disappear around the corner.

“So,” Meg said, locking the filing cabinet and hiding the key. “You gonna tap that?”

Dean frowned and laughed at once. “No!” he croaked, casting a damning glare in Meg’s direction. “I’m not— I’m not into that.”

“What, not into guys? C’mon, you’re kidding yourself.” Meg leaned her curvy hip against the desk, arms folded so her lilac scrubs crinkled. “That piece of ass had you drooling down your scrubs, kid.”

Dean surreptitiously checked he hadn’t in fact drooled. Once he was sure his scrubs were spotless, he scoffed. “I’m not— Fuck. Look, I’m not denying I’m into guys. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated. Shower sex, that’s complicated,” Meg raised her eyebrows. “Bisexuality ain’t complicated.”

“It is,” Dean insisted, hands spread out to his coworker in mild frustration. “I don’t wanna bang guys, all right? Girls, sure. Whatever, been there, done that. Guys... I dunno, I like them, but as I said, I’m not into that.” He stared wistfully at the door, then at the lines of parked cars beyond the glass, their roofs caressed by streetlamps and the faintest glow of moonlight.

“Yeah,” Meg said eventually, bitter as an old cranberry. “Sounds _real_ complicated.”

“Shuddup,” Dean said. He flipped his car keys in his hand and strode towards the door. “Hey, if you promise to make me coffee tomorrow morning, I’ll drop you at home now.”

“You oughta know me by now, Winchester. I don’t keep promises.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I hate feeling like I drop you at home every night and get nothing back. It would be like we’re friends or something.”

“And what a tragedy that would be.”

“Fuckin’ catastrophic.”

There was a pause, wherein Dean held the door open for Meg. Then, “So you’ll make me coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

 

 

Dean swept back the curtain with a cheerful announcement of “All right, what’ve we got today—?”

He stopped dead, mouth hanging open. “Cas.”

Priest Castiel looked up from where he was hunched on the gurney, in much the same position as he had been three weeks ago, but this time he had all his clothes on. He swallowed, and the corners of his lips twitched. “Castiel,” he corrected Dean.

“I— what, uh...” Dean looked at the clipboard, and made a mental note of how Castiel’s name was spelt. He smiled up at the other man and went forward, closing the curtain behind him again. There was a patient in the next section along too, currently being seen to by Tracy Bell, one of the younger trainees. Dean was ready to jump in if she needed help; he had a good seven years of experience on her.

Castiel licked his lips and sat up straighter as Dean stood in front of him. “You’re not wearing glasses.”

“I’m wearing contacts,” Dean replied, distracted. “Clipboard says ‘papercut’,” he said apprehensively. “What did Mark do, exactly? That’s Dr. Cain, I mean. He’s not Mark to you.”

“Nothing, he didn’t do anything,” Castiel answered, inclining his head. “I asked— I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?” Dean lowered the clipboard to his thighs, only his fingertips keeping it from falling on his sneakers. “Me, specifically? Are you sure? Why?”

“To give you this.” Castiel gestured to his left, then leaned over and reached for the top of a set of drawers containing medical supplies. Dean looked over and saw Castiel pick up a tiny clay pot, inside which was a pink flower.

“It’s a petunia,” Castiel said, holding it up until Dean took it. “It means...”

He didn’t finish his sentence; instead he closed his fingers around Dean’s hand, and Dean had to put the clipboard on the gurney in order to hold the pot carefully.

Castiel’s hands were shaking as he let go, and he grasped his own hands together and set them between his knees. He was frowning deeply, and remained silent.

Dean parted his lips with his tongue. “Wow. Thanks, man. It’s cute,” he said. _Kinda like you,_ he added inside his head. Moving slow, he put the pot down on top of the clipboard. “Listen, do you actually have a papercut, or can I get back to the other patients?” Dean thumbed nervously over his shoulder. “There’s a kid out there screaming ‘cause there’s something stuck in his ear. I’ve kinda gotta...” 

“You have to go,” Castiel finished. “I understand.” His head stayed bowed, but there wasn’t the slightest trace of a smile on the part of his face that Dean could see.

Dean lingered for a moment, and was glad he did. Castiel turned one hand over and showed him a red line across a knuckle. “It stings.”

Dean chuckled. “You couldn’t bear to put your own Band-Aid on, huh.”

“The thought filled me with dread,” Castiel said, this time with a smile in his voice. Dean grinned as he filtered through the top drawer and pulled out a saline wipe and an off-brand sticking plaster.

“Hand,” Dean said, holding out his own nitrile-covered hand, palm-up. Castiel’s hand was warm and muscular when he set it against Dean’s. Dean grasped his wrist and wiped the cut, drawing a hiss from the other man.

“Here, let’s do a little teamwork,” Dean said, offering Castiel one end of the sticking plaster. “Pull the little white tab off for me, I’ll hold it.”

Castiel used his free hand and pulled away the white tab, and Dean smiled. “Damn, Cas, you’re a pro. Where did you train?”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean beamed at him while affixing the bandage one-handed across his knuckle.

He rubbed at the bandage once it was on, and made it stick firmly. Castiel’s skin wrinkled about under Dean’s thumb, and he felt a bizarre enjoyment of the delicate bones under his skin. _What sexy metacarpophalangeal joints and proximal phalanges you have,_ said Dean’s brain. _Pervert,_ said another part of his brain.

Dean let Castiel’s hand go, and patted his left shoulder gently. “How’s the bee sting?”

“It stayed swollen and sore for a few days, then it got better,” Castiel said. He was frowning again, staring at Dean’s knees.

Dean touched Castiel’s neck. “You okay?”

Castiel looked up, sniffing, and Dean was startled to see his eyes swimming with tears.

“Christ,” Dean breathed. He shook his head. “You’re not okay, are you?”

Castiel mirrored him, shaking his head too. The hand with the Band-Aid pawed once at the corner of Dean’s scrubs, as if he wanted to touch him but refained. An expression of pain crossed his face and he looked down again, hands gripped tight between his knees.

Dean didn’t know what to do. “Cas,” he whispered. “Castiel, what’s wrong?”

Castiel took a shaking breath, and he was about to speak but then Tracy called, “Dean! Quick, need help!”

Dean jerked on his feet, looked quickly at Castiel, but then rushed to the next gurney without another look back. Only two thin curtains kept them apart, but even once Dean had changed his gloves and assisted Tracy with a very-nearly-botched tetanus injection, he hadn’t heard another noise from Castiel.

When Tracy was fine by herself again, Dean went back to Castiel’s gurney, and discovered why he’d heard nothing.

Castiel was gone.

Dean tossed his gloves and washed his hands, mind brimming with worried questions as he made his way back to the waiting room.

Dean caught Kevin’s elbow the moment he’d put down his stack of files, and asked in a hasty mumble, “Did you see Bee Sting Guy come through here? Did he leave already?”

“Dark hair, blue eyes and a clerical collar, right?” Kevin asked. “Yeah, he paid thirty bucks for a Band-Aid and walked out of here like he was about to cry.”

Dean bit his lip and stared at the door, past fifteen other people waiting for treatment, their faces brightened by the orange sunset slicing at an angle through the glass.

“Why?” Kevin asked, picking up another stack of files. “Did you turn him down or something?”

“Turn... down – for what?”

“For a date,” Kevin said, nodding to Meg when she called him over to the front desk to deal with a new patient. “You’re totally DTF, right?”

“Dee-tee-what? No! He came in here for a friggin’ papercut!”

“And you made him cry?!”

“No!” Dean was waved away before he could explain; Kevin had duties to attend to, and so did Dean. He looked up the next patient on the list, and went to call them through to the next room.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Cas all evening, then well into the night. By the next morning, however, he became caught up in the daily rush of ER patients, absorbed by their maladies and stories of woe and pain – and occasionally, joy – so he barely had a moment to wonder about that one sad, hot, unobtainable priest.

A few days later, however, he stood and stared at the petunia on Meg’s desk. Its bright pink petals were shaped like a saggy trumpet, and it brightened the place up a tiny bit. There was already a fable evolving among the staff: the petunia was where Bee Sting Guy’s beloved honeybee once lived, and once the bee died from losing its stinger, Bee Sting Guy couldn’t bear to look upon the flower any more, so he’d given it to the person who removed the sting.

Dean didn’t much like the story, because it made him feel bad for the bee. But regardless, every mention of Bee Sting Guy made him smile. When he talked about him with the other nurses, he pretended he couldn’t remember his name, pretended he was just ‘Bee Sting Guy’, but he was _Cas_.

Cas was special. Cas was miserable. Cas hadn’t been back yet, and Dean wondered if he _would_ come back.

“You gonna stare at that hayfever factory until it wilts, or are you gonna help me tidy up?” Meg asked from the other side of the desk, where she was busy pushing chairs back against the walls and putting kids’ toys back into the germ-infested box from whence they came.

Dean leaned around the computer, staring at Meg. “Me, touch those gross things? I’ll take the staring, thanks.”

Meg huffed and kicked the final giant Lego brick into the box. “You know he probably hates you,” she remarked, and it took a few seconds before Dean figured out she was talking about Cas.

“If he hated me, why did he give me a flower?” Dean asked, reaching to stroke the flower’s soft, wavy petals. The plant shivered at the touch, and Dean smiled to himself.

“Petunias mean resentment and anger,” Meg said. “Looked it up online. The Victorians took their flower meanings seriously.” She strode over to Dr. Cain’s office and rapped three times on the door. When Cain called, she poked her head in and said, “We’re packing up now, boss. Pharmacy’s locked down, you’ll have to get your nicotine gum tomorrow.” Dean heard a gruff complaint, and Meg grinned as she replied, “Yeah, yeah, like I care.”

She shut the door again and stifled a yawn, straightening out her scrubs as she padded across the carpet.

Dean tapped his fingers on the desk. “There’s gotta be something else it means,” he said, eyeing the plant. “He came here specially to give it to me, I think.”

“You said he came for a papercut.”

“He did,” Dean shrugged. “I get the feeling he was waiting for a medical excuse to come back. Papercut was the first thing that happened. Guess you don’t get many injuries working at a chapel.”

Meg hummed. She stood beside Dean, and they observed the flower together. Meg then bumped her shoulder against Dean’s bicep. “There is something else it means, actually.”

“You’re withholding information? Should’a known.”

“Be warned: if I tell you, it might make it sound like I care,” Meg said.

“I think I can handle it.”

“Petunias also mean ‘you soothe me’.”

Dean flushed with appreciation, and a gooey feeling settled in his gut. “God,” he sighed. “That’s adorable. He really meant that?”

“There you go again, Winchester. Always thinking the best of people. Why can’t you accept that he hates you?”

“Because he doesn’t,” Dean said firmly. “If you saw the way he was looking at me, you’d think all he wanted in the world was a hug.”

His stomach curdled cold for a moment, mind blazing over with realisation. Fuck, that was all Cas had wanted. Just a hug.

Dean noticed soon after that Meg had been talking while he’d been thinking. “What? I didn’t hear that, I zoned out.”

Meg spat a sound of annoyance at him, then slammed the filing cabinet shut and put her cellphone into her pocket. “Just go sit your ass in the driver’s seat, dickhead. I want to stop at Micky-D’s on the way home.”

“Aw, no,” Dean complained, pulling on his leather jacket over his scrubs. “Can’t we get a real burger?”

Meg sighed. “Fine. Then I get to drive. _And_ pick the music. You get to shut your cakehole.”

Dean weighed the options: risk a head-on collision and perhaps arrest, or risk indigestion. No contest, really. Until he got his dream car (275 horsepower ‘67 Chevy Impala, glossy black with silver rims, 327 engine and four-barrel carburetor), he didn’t really care about the piece of crap he was driving now. He tossed Meg the car keys and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Have at it, fuckface. You better get your licence soon or I swear to God, these joyrides will be over. _Over_.”

“The faster you teach me the faster I’ll get my licence,” Meg countered, shoving open the glass door and letting it close in Dean’s face. “Then I’ll be out of your product-drowned hair for the foreseeable future, and won’t that be a treat.”

“It’ll be a fucking miracle, that’s what it’ll be,” Dean muttered darkly, heading down the street, making tracks towards his tiny white Toyota.

 

 

“Castiel Breckenridge?”

Castiel looked up from his cooking magazine, seeing a clear-faced young woman smiling down at him with a clipboard in hand. Her nails were painted in fantastic colours, and she was wearing translucent lipgloss that showed off her bronze skin. “We’re ready for you now, if you’d like to follow me?”

Castiel leaned forward and set his magazine on the communal coffee table in the waiting room, then stood to follow the woman. Her black hair was tied in a bun, and loose hairs tickled over her shoulder as she checked that Castiel was following.

“You were here last time I visited,” Castiel remarked, following a step behind as they went together towards the treatment room. “Dean had to leave me to rescue you.”

The woman laughed nervously. “Oh, that was... Nearly a month ago, wowza. Thankfully I haven’t had any trouble since then, so.” She laughed again, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m getting better at it. Training.”

“Of course. Well, I hope you continue to improve.”

“Heh, yeah. Thanks.” They reached the room with the three gurneys; on the third gurney along, a girl with her hair in pigtails sat in tears as her mother hushed her, and a young Asian man muttered reassuringly as he took her blood pressure with a pressurised black wrap around her arm.

Castiel swallowed. It wasn’t what he saw that bothered him; it was what he didn’t see. “Where’s Dean?”

The woman looked at her clipboard, then up at Castiel. “Um, I’m Tracy, I’m your nurse today. The form you filled out said it’s a sprained wrist?”

“No, I—” Castiel stepped to the side, letting another nurse go by: Dean’s sarcastic friend. The woman didn’t take any notice of Castiel, just led another patient to the second gurney along. Castiel let out a breath, staring at the linoleum. “I want to be treated by Dean.”

“If you want a male nurse, you can wait until Kevin’s done with that girl over there. He’ll be another fifteen minutes maybe.”

Castiel felt a clench of unease. “No, it’s okay. I can wait for Dean.” He remembered what Dean had said so long ago: he worked here every evening except Sundays. It was quarter past seven on Thursday, he was meant to be here. He _had_ to be here, otherwise Castiel had cancelled tonight’s sermon for nothing.

Tracy seemed unsure, fidgeting now. She breathed twice like she was going to speak, but didn’t. She glanced once more at her clipboard, then shook her head, said, “Excuse me one second,” and walked over to the second gurney, getting the other nurse’s attention.

“Meg. Meg, he wants to see Dean,” Tracy said quietly. Castiel turned his head away and pretended to read a poster on preventing the spread of disease, but listened instead. “What do I tell him?”

“Is that Bee Sting Guy?” Meg asked, an amused lilt in her voice. Castiel managed a small smile, and his fingers curled against his thigh. “Dean’ll be over the moon. Uh. Okay, you take Mrs. Orav here, I’ll deal with this. Careful with the old girl, she has fragile bones.”

Castiel turned in time to see Tracy greet her new elderly patient with a smile and pull the privacy curtain closed behind her.

Meg swayed up to Castiel with a lascivious smirk on her plump lips. She snapped off her gloves and stomped on a nearby foot pedal for the trash, then launched her gloves down into a dozen other identical pairs.

“So,” she said. “I take it praying away the gay didn’t help, huh. You’re back for another nibble on everyone’s favourite boy toy.”

Castiel bristled. It hurt because she was technically right.

Meg laughed to herself and folded her arms, kicking up a Croc-clad heel to lean back on the wall. “He won’t be in until nine. You have three options. One, you let me or Tracy treat you, and you go home smelling like Beyoncé instead of cherries and Old Spice. Two, you go home without anyone’s hands having fondled you anywhere – that’ll save you a few bucks. Three, you sit in a private room and keep your head down until Dean gets here.”

Castiel started forwards, ready to take the third option. Meg raised a finger to silence him.

“It’ll cost you a hundred bucks.”

“A _hundred_?!”

Meg shrugged carelessly. “You’re a hassle to keep around, so my hands are tied. And believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do; I’m not a big fan of bondage.”

Castiel hung his head, fingers slipping into his pocket to touch his wallet. “Do you take credit?”

“Pay when you leave,” Meg said, patting Castiel on the shoulder. She pointed ten feet down the hall, where a smaller waiting section was set back in shadow. “Door on the left, turn the light on and sit quietly.”

“Am I allowed to—”

“I said _sit_. Now. Hurry up, I have patients to see. Stay out of the way.”

Castiel swallowed and went where she told him. He tried the door handle, and found the door swung open easily. He hit the light switch on the right wall, and the fluorescents flickered on to illuminate a wheelless examination table, bare of any pillow or protective tissue. The room itself was stocked from the carpet to waist-height with a plentitude of packaged towels, syringes, medicine, and cleaning equipment. Castiel held the vague notion in his mind that this room ought to have been kept locked, but nevertheless, he shut the door behind him and went to sit up on the padded table, careful not to put pressure on his wrist.

He could see the patients’ room through a small, wire-reinforced window ahead, and the movement of the nurses and patients reminded him of his bees. Busy, purposeful.

He sat and watched, hands clasped on his knees.

Such a long while passed, in which time Castiel had to leave once to go to the bathroom, and he successfully snuck around the clinic without being seen by Meg. He returned and paced around the examination table, running his fingers over its smooth leather top until his skin burned.

He picked up dense packets of paper towels and read their labels, then did the same with the syringes and the pamphlets and the medicine and the spray cleaner bottles.

Eventually he just lay back on the table and stared at the light, blinking one eye then the other, watching random colours burst and swim in his retinas.

He leapt upright and nearly fell off the table when the door opened.

“Hey,” Dean said, a bright smile on his face. He was wearing purple scrubs today, and those thick-framed glasses that Castiel had adored the first time they met. Dean shut the door, and Castiel did slip off the table now, holding his injured wrist to show it to Dean.

“My wrist hurts,” he said, offering Dean his hand.

Dean didn’t look at his wrist; he went on looking at Castiel’s face until he was right up close. Oh, those pretty green eyes. Sun-bloomed freckles spread out on his skin like sand on a shore; long eyelashes swept under his glasses lenses as he blinked halfway. He looked tired, presumably from his day at the ER, but his high-cheeked smile masked all but the darkness under his eyes.

Castiel narrowly avoided revealing a hitch in his breath as Dean’s gloved fingers rounded his wrist, caressing his skin to pull his arm closer.

“How’d you hurt it?” Dean asked, his low voice kept soft. It was quiet in this room, he didn’t need to speak up to be heard over the bustle of the clinic’s chaos.

Castiel swallowed and wet his dry lips before he spoke. “I can’t remember. Perhaps I slept on it wrong.”

Dean clucked the inside of his cheek against his teeth, eyes flicking up to meet Castiel’s. “Bummer. That sort of thing usually goes away after a while, you just need to rest it. Try icing it to keep any swelling down, and maybe a sling.”

Castiel’s heart was beating harder than it should; Dean was still holding his wrist.

Their stares locked, and as Castiel gazed at Dean, he felt his heart begin to slow; excitement turned to ease. He smiled lopsidedly, tilting his head.

Dean’s pink tongue poked out over his lips, and he let Castiel’s wrist go. He stepped back and smoothed a hand over the padded table, watching his own purple-covered fingers move. “I, um. I was told you waited. For me.”

Castiel used his injured hand to pull back the dark material of his other sleeve, so he could see his watch. “Just under two hours, yes.”

Dean chuckled breathily, reaching a hand up to rub at his neck. He stopped when his gloves crinkled, but he didn’t stop smiling. His eyes stayed down, perhaps shy. “Cas, I gotta be honest. I don’t really get it. Why, I mean.” He caught Castiel’s gaze, taking a breath. “I’m experienced, sure, but so is Meg. Kevin’s a trainee, but he’s even nicer than I am; he cracks better jokes, he’s got daintier hands, and he’s gentle. Tracy would be more than competent at putting your arm in a sling. You didn’t need to wait for me.”

Even when Castiel shook his head, Dean swallowed, inhaling like he wanted to continue.

“Please,” Castiel said, setting his good hand on Dean’s muscular forearm as a placation. “Has it occured to you that I want a treatment that none of them can provide?”

Dean looked uncomfortable now, frowning as he looked away. He tried to speak but failed, and it came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and sighed. “I’m flattered,” he said eventually.

Castiel waited.

Silence.

“But?” Castiel prompted. He smiled; Dean exhaled with a soft laugh, then started to grin.

“I’m flattered, _but_ – you can’t keep doing this. Meg was probably rude and unprofessional in getting you in here, I’m surprised she didn’t lock you in. But she was right.” Dean looked up now, a weak smile on his lips. “You can’t come in here and demand to see one nurse. That’s not how it works. Either you get seen by whoever’s here, or you don’t get seen at all.” His eyes flicked to the window, then back to Castiel. “Right now I’m falling behind on my patients, everyone else is covering for me. That costs money, and time. It needs to be first-come, first-serve. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”

“My keeping you here costs the clinic a hundred dollars, I suppose,” Castiel said under his breath. He shook his head when Dean looked curious. “Apologies, Dean. I only wanted—” He swallowed and looked at his shoes. “Well.”

He frowned suddenly, breathing kept quiet but turning harsh; he could feel emotion rising in him like bile, knowing Dean was about to leave. Castiel didn’t need treatment for his wrist, and he knew it – he’d come in here already aware he would be wasting everyone’s time. His jaw clenched and he fought down a forceful, jittering, _clenching_ feeling, swallowing hard and breathing slow, fists in his pockets. He couldn’t show weakness in front of Dean again, Dean didn’t want to see it—

Castiel gasped as a gloveless hand touched his shoulder, warm though the jacket material. Dean’s body was close, he was blocking out the light. He was wide and warm, and oh...

 _Oh_ , his arms were around Castiel’s torso.

He squeezed, and Castiel rested forwards, eyes shut tight against Dean’s shoulder, holding back tears.

Dean’s strong hand rubbed up and down Castiel’s back, and Castiel’s breath broke out of his mouth, along with a cry of need, upset, hollow and nearly unrecognisable as his own voice.

“I’m— I’m sorry, I don’t—” Castiel blabbered, wincing as tears fell from his eyes in tickling drips. He opened his eyes and saw two thin lines straight down, darkening Dean’s scrubs.

“Shh,” Dean whispered, a hand cupping the back of Castiel’s head. “Whatever you’re going through, it’s okay. Just relax. Just relax, c’mon.”

Castiel’s hands moved from his own pockets and spread, haltingly, moving for Dean’s hips. Dean seemed to sense his hesitation, and one of his hands swung down, touching Castiel’s injured wrist and guiding it to his hip. He was dense there; fully muscled, yet still slender. Castiel trembled, eyes open wide at the feeling. He’d never felt anyone so close. Any Brother or Sister he’d ever embraced had been swathed in layers upon layers of thick fabric; now smooth purple cotton was all that separated Castiel’s hands from Dean’s skin.

Castiel finally began to relax, and Dean rubbed at his back again. “That’s it. Breathe slow. Let it go, buddy.”

Castiel curled into Dean’s body and began to sob, unable to control it, unable to keep tears from falling. His voice turned reedy and thick, mouth open on the muscle of Dean’s shoulder, nose pressed to him, sniffing back tears that had somehow run into his nose. “I, hghhuh,” he shuddered, lifting his face and swallowing, “I don’t even know. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t.”

Dean’s head shook and he hushed Castiel slowly. “It’s fine,” he whispered. His jaw moved on Castiel’s shoulder blade as he said, “It happens sometimes.”

“I’m not sad,” Castiel said, confused. “I’m never sad. I was absolutely fine, and then I came here the first time and you were so kind, you made me _smile_ — I don’t know what this is, Dean.” He pulled off the other man, trying to control the shivering gape of his mouth. Tears tracked down his face, and he lapped at his already moist lips with his tongue. Dean looked back at him, eyebrows held in a way that somehow expressed sympathy.

“This ache in me,” Castiel said, touching his heart. “It’s not sadness. I haven’t cried before about this.” He shook his head, pressing his lips together, still unable to find words to explain himself. “I’m pathetic, I know I am.” He turned his face down, unable to see through his tears. “I think – I found something in you. The guiding light of an angel, or anything similar. Only God would know for sure. But you reassure me.” He looked up, and smiled now. He nodded once. “You’re a good man, Dean. I find that gives me hope.”

Dean’s smile was subtle, and unsure. He gulped, blinking twice, then he let his lips part to exhale, fingers sliding down past Castiel’s shoulder, leaving him once they reached his heart.

“Sometimes,” Dean said, raising his eyebrows, “I think people just need other people to talk to.”

“I talk to people,” Castiel said. “Every day, in Church.”

Dean shook his head. “You provide guidance, or whatever. You don’t get anything back.”

“God—”

“Doesn’t talk to you in words,” Dean interrupted. “If He does, my experience working in the medical field tells me you have a neurological condition.”

“God doesn’t talk to me in words,” Castiel said. “He talks to me in miracles. Bees and honey. Medicine.” His hand raised part way to Dean, paused, then all the way. He touched his heart, felt it beat. “God talks to me in the kindness of strangers.”

Dean hesitated, then looked down and rested his hand gently over Castiel’s. He held it there, feeling its shape. “Like I said,” Dean muttered. “Sometimes people need people.”

Castiel let his hand fall; he didn’t want to make Dean uncomfortable. “I’m lonely.”

“Chuh, you can say that again.” Dean smirked down at the stacks of paper towels, adjusting his footing and leaning himself against the examination table, facing away from the window. “You’re about as lonely as they come, I think. No siblings?”

“None by blood; only other servants of the Church,” Castiel said.

“They’re those crappy friends you mentioned.”

“They mean well,” Castiel said hastily, resting his lower back against the table. “Only, they’re always busy. God’s work is neverending.”

“I dunno, man,” Dean said lightly, rocking his head until his shoulder nudged against Castiel’s. “If someone can’t take time off from work to chat...” He let his sentence trail off, and when Castiel glanced to his right to look at him, he saw that shy smile on his lips, a playful look in his gemstone eyes.

Castiel smiled, hiding another wave of immense emotion. He looked down, seeing only an inch between Dean’s tatty sneakers and Castiel’s own pristine plain-toed bluchers. His foot slid the last inch, and he felt Dean’s whole body react in response to the touch, a slow tense-and-release of his muscles.

In a rough, nearly-hoarse whisper, Castiel said, “Thank you.”

Dean’s throat tucked up to his jawline, and a quick smirk showed on his lips. Eyes down, he replied, “Just doing my job.”

Castiel pushed up a small smile, nodding to himself. “Yes. Yes, I know, of course.” He stood straight, turning away and running his good hand over his mouth. His eyes shut, reacting to the strange uneasiness that had suddenly washed through him.

He felt a touch to his elbow, and Dean turned him around so they faced each other.

“You feeling better now?”

Castiel nodded, despite not being sure. He sniffled once, then broke out in a smile, nodding again at Dean’s crinkled-up eyes behind his glasses frames. “Yes,” Castiel breathed. “Much better. I was just in need of some – I don’t know, some comfort.”

“Maybe get a cat,” Dean suggested, shrugging a shoulder and stepping away. “Scientifically proven to be good for the health. I mean, unless you’re me. I’m allergic,” he explained, when Castiel squinted. “Start sneezing like my brother put powder in my glasses case all over again.”

Castiel hiccuped a laugh, and when Dean laughed at the sound, Castiel chuckled again. Dean raised his fingers and batted Castiel’s cheek gently, then gestured with a flick towards the door. “Go on, I gotta get going. Do you actually want something on your wrist or—?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said with a grateful smile. “Your presence is healing enough.”

Dean snorted, leading Castiel towards the door. “Careful who you say that around, man. Don’t think the parish takes all that well to dudes flirting with each other.”

“Oh, I’m not flirting,” Castiel said, standing in the doorway as Dean went ahead. Dean paused, turning back halfway, powerful arms hanging limp by his sides. “I mean it, Dean. You make me feel better. About everything.”

Dean tilted his head and smiled like Castiel’s words were just a formality, just an excuse. He ran his tongue over his lips and then bit his lower one, and seemed about to speak – but he became distracted when he heard his name called. The clinic was a hive of movement now, positively buzzing. Dean didn’t have another word to say to Castiel before he was swept up in the madness, and Castiel stood alone.

Still, he went to pay the hundred dollars he owed, and felt lighter inside. He beamed at the petunia sitting on the desk near the computers, and even found the courage to thank Meg for her kindness. She clucked and muttered something about his buttocks, or perhaps a donkey, but he barely heard her over the kerfuffle of the waiting room.

Within another minute, Castiel stood outside in the dusk of late summer, and he was still smiling.

There was a cat shelter not too far from here; he resolved to stop by there before tomorrow evening. Dean was nothing less than a blessing dressed in spectacles and scrubs, and Castiel thanked God and all the prophets alike for sending him his way.

 

 

Castiel was becoming rather fond of walking past the after-hours clinic on his way home from the grocery store. Now that fall had arrived, drifts of orange leaves would brush up against the clinic’s glass front during the day, the tree branches having grown into arches over the sidewalk during the summer months. Castiel would stroll underneath, admiring the sunlight through the leaves, reassured that God existed.

Castiel lived less than forty feet from the rose garden and graveyard at the rear of the chapel; his house and the surrounding trees were once separated from the churchyard by an old wooden fence. In the rain, the oak tree above the fence always hunched with the weight of the water, and it enshrouded the fence until, ten years ago, it gave way completely. Now there was no barrier, and Castiel considered his house and garden a part of his chapel. It was all the same place of worship, it was all sacred to him.

His bees were blessed bees, he was certain.

There was only one hive below the yellow boughs of six deciduous elm trees; he was prevented from having more than one hive by state law. Rules were rules, he explained to anyone who asked why he didn’t fill the land he had with hives; one hive by itself looked rather solitary. Lonely.

Well, rules were often arbitrary, he knew that well. So that was why he broke them. He kept a second hive, although technically it was the same swarm, turned feral. About two years back, his swarm had gotten too big for their hive and split apart. Flying free, the second swarm had taken up residence in the crooked elbow of a tree branch, and happily feasted on the same roses in the churchyard as their ancestors had.

Rose honey was always Castiel’s favourite. He’d grown up eating it, and despite its subtle flavour – and the occasional insect wing or leg he would find on his toast – nothing could ever compare.

The wild bees’ honey was harder to harvest than that of the bees in the wooden hive. Castiel would only take a rare taster from the wild ones; their hive was less stable, and he dared not break it, because the bees would have to rebuild what he’d taken before the winter came. Today was going to be one of the last honey collections he did this year; soon the bees would need the honey for themselves.

It was seven o’clock and still warm out, warm enough that he was perfectly comfortable in a white cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, and nothing on his feet except leather sandals. He didn’t need protective clothing. In all his thirty-something years, he’d never been stung more than thrice. He was good at this.

He climbed his orchard ladder, clinging tighter to its narrowing rungs as he got closer to the top. He gripped a small bee smoker in his hand, smouldering embers burning up pine needles inside. He went slow, inching up into the midst of the bees orbiting around their hive.

He held up the smoker and puffed the tiny bellows with his other hand. The cool white smoke eventually got to them, diffused into the air. There was no breeze this evening: conditions were perfect.

The guard bees were lulled by the smoke, and they neglected to alert the other bees to Castiel’s presence. After another minute, he was certain the bees were busy gorging themselves on the honey in preparation, as the smoke had convinced them they might need to relocate due to fire.

He wouldn’t worry them for long. He set the smoker down at the top of the ladder and pulled his knife from his equipment belt. Holding onto the curved branch of the elm tree, Castiel began to cut away an edge piece of the hive. It would be far away from the queen, and there shouldn’t been any larvae there. Just honey.

He pulled the glass jar from his belt too, and hovered it below the cut piece. With one last careful slide of the knife, the chunk of hive separated from the rest and sank into the jar along with a tired golden spill of honey. The slice settled, and an uninterrupted drool of honey flowed after it.

Castiel waited until the pour became a trickle, then a drip, and once the last droplet extended a full five inches before plopping down, and the remainder retracted upwards, Castiel took the smoker in hand and the glass with the knife in the other, and began his descent back down the ladder.

He set the jar and smoker down on the leaves below and straightened up, hands on his hips, looking up at the hive. Its uneven sides were as magnificent as always, gleaming like a small sun in what was left of the daylight. The bees were starting to buzz again, sensing the lack of smoke.

Castiel felt a tickle on the back of his hand, and assuming there was some honey there, he lifted it to his mouth to lick – but before it got there, he startled: there was a bee there instead, crawling on his hand. He yelped and shook his hand, something he would never have done normally, and never _should_ have done.

“Ah— Yeoww!” Castiel shouted, shaking his hand again and again when he felt the sting embedding into the sensitive skin of his hand. “ _Fuck_!”

The bee flew off, and Castiel hissed in discomfort, cradling his stung hand protectively. He looked down and saw the broken back half of a bee, and was overcome with regret and sorrow and immense sadness.

That bee was going to die now. They’d surprised each other, but all Castiel would have to deal with now was a swollen extremity. His blessed honeybee was consigned to the graveyard it was already in.

“God, forgive me,” Castiel said, shoulders slumping. “How could I _do_ that? Completely senseless!” He set his jaw firm, gulping as he looked around at his equipment. The smoker went on smoking, and it might go on smoking for many hours. He picked it up with the hand that wasn’t throbbing madly, and set the metal pot into his belt. He could feel its warmth, as well as the warmth of the fading sun, but neither felt as pleasant as they had mere minutes previously.

Crouching, Castiel retrieved his prize, a precious four inches of honeycomb. He stood straight and sighed, pondering how much this molten gold was really worth to him, now that a bee had given its life so Castiel could enjoy small moments of gluttony.

Castiel sighed and turned back for his cottage, brightening slightly when his pregnant tabby cat trotted out to twine around his legs. “I’ll feed you in a minute, Shilo,” he said, shouldering open his wooden door and stepping onto the cool kitchen tiles. He toed off his sandals and set his jar and smoker down on the table, wandering towards the kitchen sink with his swelling hand pressed against his chest.

With his middle against the sink’s steel rim, he bent forward and looked at the sting in the dusky glow from the sky. The sunlight was leaving now; a last glint radiated off the hive and the tip of the tallest elm tree, and then the gold was swallowed by shadowy blue.

Castiel grasped the stinger with his dirty fingertips and pulled, sighing and relaxing his tense face once it was out. “Stings,” he breathed, biting down on his inner cheeks when the throbbing only got more intense.

“ _Mew,_ ” Shilo complained, pawing at Castiel’s leg, then standing up and resting her front feet on his knee. “ _Mew._ ”

Castiel looked down at the cat, thinking aloud, “I suppose I don’t need any treatment, I know what to do with it. Just a wash and some ice.”

“ _Mew. Mew mew._ ”

Castiel couldn’t resist the feline’s demands, so went to the open-sided cupboard above her food bowl and tugged out the dry food box. He tipped in more than he usually did, because he didn’t feel any desire to open a tin of wet food with his hand burning hot like it was.

Shilo shoved her nose into her food and started gobbling, not even chewing before she swallowed. Castiel crouched and stroked his hand along her back, smiling at the bump of her hips as she lifted her back end into his touch. Her long fur warmed his hand, but although it was soothing, it only served to remind Castiel of someone else who brought him peace.

“It’s Saturday,” Castiel said, and realised at that moment that he was trying to convince himself to stay home, despite his mind already being made up. “I won’t be too long, Shilo. I can tell Dean all about you, I think he’ll be delighted to know about your babies.”

He went and got his tan-coloured trenchcoat, hissing aloud and grimacing as he attempted and failed to put his coat on without disturbing the swelling.

Panting to control the pain, he went back to the kitchen at the rear of the cottage and put his sandals back on. He closed the door and headed through the trees, watching the hive pass overhead. He rounded his ladder and carried on, ducking under the overgrown oak tree, then following the grassy path between the rose bushes until he reached the chapel. He loved the smell of its old wood, and as he walked past he ran his hand along its white sides, still feeling the heat of the day’s sun collected inside it.

He stepped onto the sidewalk and closed the chapel’s garden gate behind him, stinging hand held across from his heart.

The short journey to the clinic was invigorating to his senses. The sky was purpling now, and the roads were clear of all but a few cars, headlights low and engines thrumming. People chatted and laughed from shop balconies unseen, smoking and drinking, socialising on one of the last warm nights they’d enjoy this year.

Castiel smiled as he crossed the road, and reached the line of young trees embedded in the sidewalk. Their shapes seemed ghoulish without light, long fingers and rakish bodies. Castiel passed them by, one, two, three, all the while peering in through the clinic’s glass wall; at the fourth tree, he turned right and pushed open the glass door.

Another six patients looked up as he entered, and he gave them a tight-lipped smile. He went to the desk at the far side of the room, where the lights were on already, reflecting off the desktop.

“How can I help you?” Kevin asked – then his professional smile turned to one of recognition and enthusiasm. His eyes dipped to the hand Castiel showed him, and his grin got even wider. “No way.” He swung off his stool and poked his head into what appeared to be a small store room. “Meg, it’s Bee Sting Guy! He has an actual bee sting!”

Meg came out of the store room with an empty cardboard box in hand, switching the light off as she left. Her grin was toothy and her devilish eyes showed a silent laugh. A quirk of her eyebrow left Castiel wondering what she had planned for him this time. “Back room, five minutes, hombre,” she said to him. “Wear the— _Wow_ , wear the trenchcoat.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you.” He turned away, heading for a free seat.

He heard a wolf whistle behind him, and Meg catcalled, “Yeah, you work that thing, baby!”

Castiel flustered, looking back, but when a couple of people laughed from their waiting spots, he retracted into his proverbial shell and sat himself down, trenchcoat splayed open, painful right hand caressed by his left upon his knees.

Five minutes felt like an aeon. Did he look unattractive in the coat, was his hair a mess, did he smell like sweat or smoke or honey? Would Dean even want to see him again, would he think Castiel was a weakling for coming back when he already knew his injury wasn’t serious? Would Dean think he was only here because he wanted something from him again?

All six of the other patients were seen to, and Castiel wished he’d checked his watch or the clock on the wall before he sat down – it had definitely been more than five minutes. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty-five. _Definitely_ thirty-five.

The fifth and sixth patients paid together: they were the couple who had laughed when Meg made fun of Castiel’s attire. The two of them snickered again as they passed by, and Castiel met their eyes before looking down, fingering the material of his slacks.

Life was easier when he wore his clerical getup. The uniform commanded respect from most people, even from those who had not a speck of belief in them. It worried Castiel that when he was dressed like himself, he wasn’t worthy of respect. He was still the small, bullied child he always was. Nobody else liked bees or church halls. People online even laughed and called him unmentionable slurs when he told them he was both male and a cat-lover. He didn’t like the people on the internet any more than he liked them in the real world.

Maybe he was seeking comfort in the wrong places.

A snappy whistle came from the other side of the waiting room, and Castiel’s heart leapt as he saw Dean standing there, dressed in bright pink scrubs, waving Castiel over. Castiel scrambled out of his chair and crossed the room in brisk strides, grinning.

“Heya, buddy,” Dean said. “Been a while. What, two months? God, it’s like you don’t even like me.”

“No, I like you!” Castiel implored, stepping into Dean’s personal space. “I like you very much, Dean.” He hung back instead of wrapping his arms around Dean like he wanted to, because he wasn’t sure if they were friends. It was one hug, one time. Did it still count after such a long absence?

Dean chuckled and stepped back, crooking his fingers and peering enticingly over his shoulder when he turned away. “Come on through, I’ll see what I can do about your, uh... swelling.”

Castiel followed him in silence, eyes on the back of Dean’s neck. He was almost certain he saw the faint beginnings of a blush.

Dean led Castiel to the first gurney: Castiel had come to think of it as _his_ gurney, and perhaps Dean thought the same. Alternatively, maybe it was where all Dean’s patients went by default.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Dean said, touching Castiel’s lower back. “Take off your coat, it’ll make it easier to— Um. T-to...”

“To help me,” Castiel supplied.

“Yeah,” Dean said, turning away with pink cheeks, pulling the curtains closed all around. “Yeah, that.”

Castiel gritted his teeth and held his breath, doing his best not to irritate what was already swollen – and it was swollen so fully that his skin had become distended and turned a terribly unhappy vermillion at the sting site. He sighed as he freed himself from the coat, and Dean took it from him to hang over a chair, the same kind of chair as in the waiting room.

“Never took you for a badass longcoat,” Dean remarked, flicking a finger at the coat’s lapel. “Kinda sexy.”

Castiel stared at him wide-eyed, sitting down on the gurney. “Do you mean that?”

Dean stood opposite, one purple glove halfway on. “Uh...mm.” His breath shivered, and he blinked his way downwards, pulling his glove on completely. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “I have this thing for like, old Western movies. That coat would fit right in.”

Castiel smiled softly, eyes on Dean’s freckled forehead, watching the way his eyebrows drew together as he took Castiel’s hand. Dean’s skin had been dried out by the sun, leaving the finest kind of wrinkles between his cheeks and exquisitely-crafted nose. Castiel felt a most peculiar desire to run his fingers against Dean’s cheeks, against his pouty lips. He wanted to feel him breathe out against his fingers, a feeling twice as intimate as the distant breaths Castiel now felt against his wrist.

“Stinger seems to be all gone, that’s good,” Dean said, sniffing once. “That bee must’ve stung pretty hard.”

“I overreacted to its presence,” Castiel said morosely. “I started shrieking and flapping around all over the place.”

Dean looked up, wriggling his nose. “Huh. I know I barely know you, Cas, but that doesn’t sound like you.”

“It isn’t like me. Around bees, I’m calm. I’m always calm. Even when my parents died and left me orphaned, I was calm.”

Dean took a shallow breath, running the tip of his tongue under his top lip. He swallowed, then let Castiel’s hand go and stepped back, eyes watering. Castiel started forward and reached for him, concerned. “Dean, did I upset you? I apologise, I was trying to help you get to know me, I didn’t think—”

“Cas, I’m not crying,” Dean huffed, taking off his gloves. He was blinking hard and fast, trying to see through tears. He laughed, frowning at the same time. “I dunno, my eyes just started streaming, I— Oh god, I’m gonn—” He broke off to sneeze, moving his arm quick enough that he covered the explosion with his inner elbow. He straightened up and blinked rapidly, then sneezed again.

“Oh,” Castiel said, as the reason for Dean’s watering eyes struck him: “You must be allergic to Shilo, my cat. She’s pregnant.”

“You got a cat?” Dean grinned, then sneezed again. “Jesus Christ, I gotta— Fuck.” He vacated the curtained area and stood outside, waving hands at his face. Speaking up over his shoulder, he said, “It’s not usually this bad, people come in here all the time and usually I don’t get anything worse than the sniffles. What did you do, roll in her fur or something?”

Castiel looked down at his white shirt, and spied five cat hairs all at once, and the longer he looked, the more he saw. “She must’ve slept on my laundry,” he said. “She does that sometimes.”

Dean huffed a small laugh. “Would you, um...” He ducked his head, fingers wiggling at his sides. “Would you mind taking your shirt off?”

Castiel began unbuttoning it without question, and smiled when he saw Dean fluster about on his feet, hands to the back of his neck, then in his scrubs pockets, then wringing about at his sides.

“You’re nervous?” Castiel asked, folding up his shirt inside-out and leaving it on the chair near his coat. “Dean, you don’t need to be nervous, it’s only me.”

“I’m not nervous,” Dean said, turning halfway around, then all the way when he noticed Castiel sitting back on the gurney, topless. The curtain whipped shut again, and Dean got a fresh pair of gloves. Castiel said nothing about the sheen of sweat visible in the dips of Dean’s palms as he put the gloves on.

Dean then stood in front of Castiel, and Castiel offered his wounded hand. Dean held him gently, then turned and reached for a cleansing wipe.

“Your hands are grubby,” Dean said dispiritedly. “Not my place to say it, but _gross_.”

“I was working outside,” Castiel replied. “Collecting some fresh honeycomb. Oh, darn, I meant to bring it with me.”

“You say ‘darn’?” Dean repeated, then laughed, bending at the knees and tipping his head back. His eyes were glossy when he straightened, hands shivering as he wiped Castiel’s dirty fingers down.

“I curse,” Castiel said forcefully. “Quite vehemently, in fact. Just not in polite company.”

“Don’t you dare go calling me polite. I can be rude as I like, goshdangit-butt-titty-poop.”

Castiel smirked, tilting his head while Dean tossed the used wipe away, then left to get an ice pack from the tiny freezer between this section’s curtain and the next one.

“I missed you, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, when Dean returned. Dean halted before the ice pack touched Castiel, and Castiel glanced up to gauge his reaction. “I think of you often. I found myself—” he smiled, and carried on, “referring to you as my friend, once. I was in conversation with the mayor and it slipped out. And then, I don’t know.” He bowed his head, not watching Dean’s hands supporting his wrist or holding the cold compress down. “I’d... I’d like to be sure that’s okay, for me to say that.”

“Cas, of course it is,” Dean said, more gently than Castiel had expected. He felt the soft swipe of a thumb against his wrist bone, and was glad his reactive shiver didn’t show. “You should hear the nurses talking in the break room sometimes. When you first came here, you started off being this one story we liked to tell, ‘cause some patients stand out, you know? But then you came again, and you became more like a person. And then you were a regular, not many people drop by as much as you do. You get to know a face, Cas. And you’re basically one of us, sometimes. Like how theatres have ghosts, and well-known legends. ‘Cept our ghost is a priest.”

Castiel looked up, confused. “I’m still alive.”

“I mean the stories,” Dean said, with a slanted smile. “You’re the Chuck Norris of the clinic, man. Castiel Breckenridge can heal the common cold with a hug. Petunias bloom everywhere Castiel Breckenridge walks. Bees don’t hum when Castiel Breckenridge is around: they remember the words.”

Castiel gave a startled laugh at the last one, feeling a happy flip in his stomach. Dean grinned, eyes shining.

Dean sobered slightly, adjusting the ice pack and letting Castiel rest his stung hand on his own thigh. “Castiel Breckenridge is so asexual that all the straight people he talks to get confused.”

“That one is true,” Castiel admitted. “I’m not sure what other people find so complicated about it. I don’t want to have sex, I don’t want to date anyone. I like people’s faces sometimes but I’m not necessarily attracted.” He sighed. “I like the idea of a long-term relationship, or marriage, but I honestly don’t see how I could ever get to that point without sleeping with someone at some point. I’m hopeless around people, they think I’m—” He gestured at himself, then shrugged.

“Hey.” Dean’s fingers touched Castiel’s chin, and he was enticed into looking up. Dean offered him a reassuring expression. “I think you’re awesome. There’s _something_ about you, hell knows what. C’mon, you came in here wearing a cowboy coat and sandals, you know what that says to me?”

“My parents died before they could impart any wisdom about self-presentation?”

Dean shut his eyes, stretching then pressing his lips together. “Not that. Says you don’t give a damn. People can poke fun at anything, Cas, but...” He took a breath and let his hand fall away. “I got no clue where that sentence was going, but my point is, I admire that. Look at me, I’m wearing pink today. Took me nineteen goddamn years to let myself admit I liked pink, another eight before I wore it, and kinda secretly at that. Another half-decade on, it’s a statement piece.”

Dean turned away and ran his thumb against his forehead, eyes down. “I get guys coming in here being all, ‘you can’t wear pink and be a nurse, that’s a girl’s job’, and I’m like, seriously, man? Fuck that noise, and fuck you. I took AP science, math and English all through high school to get here, then five years of microbiology and human anatomy and fuck knows what else on top of basic nursing crap. Now I can look those guys in the eye and say, hey,” Dean pointed two fingers at Castiel’s eyes, “I worked hard as fuck to get where I am, so there’s no way I’m letting some prick in a business suit tell me my girlfriends don’t deserve to get where they are now. They had to work harder than I ever did, I basically sailed through. Gotta tell you, Cas, for an industry of women, a nursing career is still easier for men to kick ass at in comparison. It’s fucked up, and IIIII have no idea why I’m still talking.”

Dean stood still, fingers curled against his lips.

Castiel blinked where he sat, enraptured by the nervous energy that went on crackling invisibly around Dean. He didn’t know what to say, but was fully comfortable with the awareness that Dean was the most incredible person he’d ever met.

Dean loosened after a number of seconds, freeing a shaky exhale and stretching out his fingers. He looked about sheepishly, licking his lips. “Look, um. There was something I wanted to... talk to you about. Not this, I mean. Not about me.”

“Uh, okay?”

Dean puffed out a heavy breath. “Okay. Meg, um – she kept joking that you were like, a stalker or something. But I told her stalkers would come back sooner, right? If you wanted to creep on me you’d be following me home or leaving me love notes.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I have never had that intention.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” Dean said dismissively, waving a hand. “God, don’t sweat it. But it raised the point of, sort of, why you keep coming back here.”

“Because I was injured,” Castiel said, raising his still-stinging hand along with the ice pack.

Dean scoffed awkwardly, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Yeah. Papercut. Sprained wrist. Not exactly the kind of thing that couldn’t be dealt with at home, or wait until the GP was open in the morning.”

Castiel looked sadly down at his hand, all too aware of the real reason.

When Castiel didn’t speak, Dean went on, out of Castiel’s eyeline, “Meg laughed when I said it, but there was something about this whole deal with you that got me antsy. It’s gonna sound really self-involved when I say it. Uh. I kind of feel, like...” He started to pace back and forth on the linoleum, and Castiel watched his feet. “Like I’m not really – _worth_ coming back to. I can name a couple dozen traits of mine that are total crap to deal with, and another half-dozen decent ones that someone else does better. I honestly can’t figure out why you stick around. It’s like you use any excuse to swing by. That’s kinda weird, Cas. A lot weird. I’m just a guy! I’m no good for you, I’m no good for anybody.”

Castiel gazed at Dean, watching as he fidgeted to a stop, hands wringing until the gloves snapped off and he threw them away, one set of knuckles running across his lips out of nervousness.

Castiel eventually found what he wanted to express. “I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified to maintain friendships, Dean. You _are_ worth coming back to – your friendship is irreplaceable for many people, I imagine. Yet... what you’re saying comes across like you think what we have between us is something more than a friendship.”

Dean shook and held onto the edge of the sink, gripping the ceramic. He licked his lips and turned his face away, clearly unsettled.

Castiel sighed and leaned forward over his thighs, cradling the ice pack firmly against his hand. “I find you interesting, Dean. It almost tires me to say it, if I’m honest. It seems so obvious to me that to say it aloud is overkill.” He chuckled, shutting his eyes. “You’re funny and clever and beautiful, all the things people are meant to find attractive. If I were someone else, I fail to see what could dissuade that person from wanting to be with you.” He looked up, seeing Dean’s shoulders shift, then shake. “If I were to deny my own flaws I would be nothing but disillusioned. But if I were to believe that everyone else had flaws and you had none, I wouldn’t simply be disillusioned, I would be downright betrayed come the time you finally reveal one of them to me.”

Dean gave a soft laugh, chin tucking against his chest. He stayed angled away, not brave enough to show Castiel his face.

“You’re more shy than you try to let on,” Castiel admitted. “Perhaps that’s one. You’re insecure, there’s another. But you are hard-working, generous, and approachable, and you could sense what I needed from you without me having to ask. I wish I had those traits, Dean. Truly.”

He swallowed hard, sitting up straight on the gurney, watching Dean’s stance sway. “I want to know about you. And, to borrow your phrase, perhaps it will sound self-involved when I say it – I want you to know about me. I want you to know why I need you.”

Dean turned around swiftly, lips parted, eyes wide and filled with many undefined emotions. “What’s that supposed to mean, you need me?”

Castiel tried to answer, but stuttered and sighed instead, ending up with his temple in his palm, face down. He shook his head and looked up again, then put down the ice pack, stood up, and held out his arms for a hug.

Dean looked like he was about to weep. His eyes filled with tears and he rushed forward, grasping Castiel’s naked back and squeezing him tight. Castiel had never considered that Dean might need a hug too, but he did. Oh, he very much did. Castiel embraced him with both hands cradling the back of his head, and he felt Dean’s cheek press against his neck, warm breath on his bare shoulder.

Dean clung to him so intently that Castiel’s thighs pushed to the gurney, and soon he sat down, arms still around Dean’s slim waist.

Dean sighed hotly, nosing Castiel’s shoulder muscles. “You have no idea how much I was hoping you’d do that today. Ever since last time you ‘n me hugged, nobody’s hugs were the same as yours. Not that they were bad, they just weren’t the same. I felt so guilty about it, I’m not meant to be like this with my patients.”

“I started it,” Castiel said gently, giving Dean one last squeeze before freeing him and letting him stand straight. “If the nursing union tries to subpoena you for excessive patient contact, you can blame me.”

Dean chuckled happily, running a hand back through his spiky brown hair. He let his hand swing down again, and then tucked it into the pocket of his scrubs. “So, um. Are we – friends? Or...?”

“Friends sounds like a good start,” Castiel nodded. “Regardless of what changes between us, I would loathe it if friendship were not the baseline.”

“Cool,” Dean said, bumping his glasses further up his nose. “That’s – that’s awesome.” He was grinning at his shoes, a sweet colouration covering over his cheeks once again.

All at once he looked up and gasped, and Castiel blinked; Dean rushed out of the curtained area and across the patients’ room, pulling a key from his pocket. Castiel leaned over the gurney to see what he was doing, and observed his new friend – _friend!_ – retrieving a small box from inside a filing cabinet. When the cabinet was shut again, Dean carried the box back to Castiel’s gurney and gave the two of them privacy once more.

“Here,” Dean said, putting the small box on Castiel’s lap. He went to the sink and turned on the water, washing his hands.

Castiel picked up the box, a transparent Tupperware-type thing with food inside. “What is it?”

“Cherry pie,” Dean said gleefully. “I was saving it for my break, which—” he leaned out of the curtained area while towelling his hands dry, “is not for another half-hour, but whatever, there’s no other patients right now. There’s a plastic fork in there. Go on, open it.”

Castiel popped open the lid, setting it aside and peering into the container. Dean snatched up the lid and started licking it, then sat down beside Castiel with a childish bounce. “You take the first bite, it’s the best one.”

“Dean, I don’t have any right to steal your—”

“Eat the damn pie, Cas,” Dean snapped. “I’m sharing here, just— God, look, it’s not hard.” He stabbed the triangle point of the pie with the plastic fork and shovelled out a lump of the ruby-red, fruity treat, then waved it in front of Castiel’s mouth. “Open.”

Castiel hesitated only for a moment, then shut his eyes and let Dean put the pie in his mouth. Castiel raised his eyebrows but didn’t open his eyes as he began to chew, feeling cherries burst on his tongue, rich with sugar and heavily drenched in flavour. There seemed to be a layer of custard below the top crust, and Castiel tingled at the sensation of it sliding across his tongue.

He sighed in delight, eyes opening slowly, head turned towards Dean. Dean looked expectant, smile wobbly and only half in place. “Huh?” he asked, waiting for a verdict.

Castiel frowned. “You made this?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Uh-huh,” Dean nodded. “C’mon, how is it?”

Castiel blinked. “God, take me now. I want this in Heaven.”

Dean’s grin burst forth like a sun sneaking out from behind a cloud, and Castiel’s smile followed suit, the moon reflecting Dean’s glorious rays.

Castiel’s smile faded first, however, eyes following Dean as he used the same fork to eat his own first bite. Castiel’s mind was full, as pregnant with thoughts as Shilo was with kittens.

Castiel had never been in love before. The thing was, if he ever _were_ to fall in love, he supposed it might feel a little something like this. He didn’t want to take his eyes off Dean even for a second, anguished that he might miss part of his existence.

This was terribly inconvenient.

“Thank you for the pie,” Castiel said, hopping off the gurney. “I look forward to seeing you again sometime. Talking with you.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Dean said around a mouthful, setting the box aside. “You can’t leave, I took an early break!”

“I have to get home, I have a pregnant cat to feed,” Castiel said, which was technically true, but not really. “Perhaps I’ll see you some other time. Shilo’s kittens will be born soon— Oh, no, I don’t think you ought to see them. You might end up in hospital.”

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. “Freakin’ allergies! Human evolution has a ways to go, I figure.”

“Ah, evolution. Yes.”

Dean caught his eye. “Oh, Christ. _Please_ tell me you believe in evolution.”

Castiel chuckled, buttoning up his shirt and watching his fingers. “You ought to have heard the last sermon I gave. I posed a set of somewhat pertinent questions: at what point does a two-thousand-year-old religious rule become immoral? At what point does a traditional belief become a delusion? The old pastor who raised me, God rest his soul – he taught me that this planet is six thousand years old, and that dinosaurs were made up by non-believers to trick us into wrongdoing.”

“God rest ye, merry palaeontologists,” Dean said solemnly, as Castiel tucked his coat over his arm and picked up his ice pack, grinning.

“I believe in evolution,” Castiel said, convinced there was a twinkle in his eye. “I’m also beginning to believe that homosexuality was never meant to be seen as sin. Or any other kind of...” He looked away. “Any other kind of ‘perversion’, as the old pastor used to say. He told me men should love women, and conscious abstinence is to be celebrated while a lack of sexual desire is to be rectified. There was, to say the least,” he looked up and held Dean’s eye, “some turmoil in my childhood. As I said the very first time we met, Dean, you’ve helped me a lot.”

“I’ve barely done anything,” Dean said, winking each watery eye in turn. “All I’ve done is hug you and sneeze.” He turned away and exploded against his arm again, then returned his gaze to Castiel. “Get the fuck outta here before your hair shirt kills me.”

“Did you mean that as a double entendre or—”

“Yes. Go away!”

Dean was laughing as Castiel made his escape, and Castiel himself couldn’t quite school the grin away from his face before he came to the front desk.

“No paperwork?” Meg intoned, plucking a chewed pen out from between her teeth. “What, did Dean get so distracted by your baby blues he forgot to write up an invoice?”

“Forty-five dollars, I believe,” Castiel said, holding up his ice pack.

“Ha. At least Bee Sting Guy is honest,” Kevin muttered from the waiting room, playing a loud, rapidly bleeping game on his phone. “He could’ve said Dean got him off for free and we totally would’ve believed him.”

“I’d’ve believed the first part,” Meg said, typing up the figures. “Dean got him off nice and slow, took him a solid fifteen minutes.”

Castiel coloured. “No, he didn’t— We didn’t—”

Kevin sounded far too amused, and Meg was almost certainly practicing a villainous snicker somewhere deep inside her head.

Castiel entered his PIN in modest silence, clearing his throat when he was done. He kept his eyes down when Meg wished him a good evening and a better night, in a way that implied things he would’ve once been punished for understanding.

The very last thing he said before he left was, “Tell Dean thank you for me. And if he gives the impression he believes he was only doing his job—”

“I’ll insult him, good and proper,” Meg said, saluting with two fingers.

Castiel smiled, and for a brief moment in time, he and Meg were riding the same wavelength, their smirks practically reflecting each other.

Then Castiel swept for the doors and held one open as a new patient came in, her arms wrapped in bandages. Their eyes met; Castiel gave her a smile, and was about to greet her, but she walked on past.

Odd, Castiel thought. He’d shaken that woman’s hand at last week’s sermon.

Castiel frowned after her, then shook his head and left the clinic, heading home. The two most likely reasons for the woman’s failure to acknowledge him weighed on his mind as he walked in the dark: either the woman was resentful of his updated religious beliefs, or she simply didn’t see him as a person beyond the clerical collar. She didn’t know him, she didn’t know his face.

Whatever the reason, it left Cas more appreciative of Dean. Dean was good. Dean was good for _him_.

Too bad Castiel wasn’t as equipped for change as he’d thought. He needed to get used to the idea of romantic attachment before he could act on it. He wasn’t ready.

He just hoped Dean would be willing once he was.

 

 

“Dean! _Dean!_ ”

Dean whipped around, eyes searching the patients’ room for the shout. Not a moment later, Kevin ran in, his entire demeanour wild with urgency.

“Bee Sting Guy!” Kevin said, beckoning, already leaving the room again. “Hurry!”

Dean dropped the box of soap refills on the nearest cabinet and ran for the door, down the hallway, five paces behind Kevin. The lights in the waiting room were up on full, and in Dean’s mind they all moved to spotlight a single patient who clung to the edge of the desk, pallid-faced, shimmering with sweat. His black slacks were torn down the left leg, and his skin was revealed: bloody, still wet and pouring.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathed, automatically reaching to grab Castiel the moment he fell into his arms. His head lolled back and Dean began to mutter, “Oh no, oh no. God, c’mon, Cas, you’re okay.”

“He’s not, we gotta get him to the hospital,” Meg said, a hard concern in her voice. She was dialling a number on her desk phone, eyes on Castiel.

“No, that’ll take too long, we can treat him here,” Dean said, turning away to follow Kevin back to the patients’ room, hauling Castiel’s dead weight in his arms to carry him. “Patient presenting laceration to the left rectus femoris, blood loss— Shit, blood loss. Cas, talk to me. Come on.”

Kevin pulled the curtain open around the first gurney and Dean lay Castiel on its top, washing over with relief and fear when he heard Castiel groan. Kevin left the curtains open, so the nurses could come and go in a hurry. Tracy had arrived in the room, putting on fresh gloves.

“Cas,” Dean said, patting Castiel’s cheeks, “C’mon, man, don’t pass out.”

“I’m okay,” Castiel said blearily, head sinking to one side. “It’s not too bad.”

Dean wet his lips and turned away, breathing hard as he reached for gloves. Kevin was undoing Castiel’s belt, Tracy left to prepare the shower.

Meg entered for a moment, one hand on the door frame. “A paramedic’s on the way, they can transfer him.”

“No!” Dean said, pulling Castiel’s pants off the rest of the way and handing them to Kevin to put somewhere else. “I can do this, I know what to do. Cas, can you sit up for me? I need you to tell me what happened. Tracy, get the shower going.”

“It’s going,” Tracy called from the adjacent room. The water hissed, gushing against the tiled walls as she tested its flow.

Castiel blinked rapidly, weak fingers screwing into the neck of Dean’s scrubs as Dean pulled him upright. “It— This man. In the chapel, he came in and stabbed me.”

“Just like that? Wow, dick move,” Dean said, but his tone was unsuited to his words, too commanding and impatient. “Cas, can you walk? Gotta get to the shower.”

Castiel tried to stand but his legs shook and he fell; Dean caught him and lifted him bridal style, nearly effortless. Castiel whimpered and clung to Dean’s neck, nose tucked against his throat.

Dean gave Kevin a grim smile as he carried Castiel to the shower room, and rather than letting him stand by himself, he carried him straight to the water hose, holding him as Tracy aimed the gentle spray at the wound.

Diluted red splattered down onto the grey tiles, water surging towards the plug hole, gleaming in the pale light. Dean hushed Castiel as he held him still, rocking his chin against Cas’ forehead as his breath came rapid and uneven – out of adrenaline or pain, Dean couldn’t tell.

Tracy narrowed her eyes and examined the wound visually as she cleaned it, fingers stroking its inch-long line. “Two lacerations at the penetration site, single entry and exit. I can’t tell how deep it goes, we need to do an internal examination.”

“Ultrasound; it’s non-invasive,” Dean said, flicking his eyes towards Kevin. “Kev, get the machine running.” Kevin ran off with a tiny smile on his face; the situation wasn’t ideal, but, like Tracy, he was excited to have a real emergency to deal with.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, lips on Castiel’s too-cold temple. “You shouldn’t’ve pulled the knife out, buddy. Was keeping you from bleeding.”

“I h-had to walk,” Castiel stammered.

“It’s all right. You did fine. You did fine, buddy.” Dean attempted conversation to keep him talking. “Hey – d’you know washing with regular soap and clean water is better than antibacterial soap? Flush the dirt and germs out. Down the drain they go.”

“Hm,” Castiel said, fingers curling at the nape of Dean’s neck. “I— I’ve missed you.”

“Sure you did,” Dean smirked, nodding to Tracy as she shut off the water. “I missed you too. And for once you came here with something properly serious.” Dean waddled out of the shower room and back to the patients’ area, weighed down by Castiel, wet sneakers squeaking on the floor. “All right, here we go. Back to bed.”

He lay Castiel on the gurney, still in his damp white shorts and untucked black shirt. Dean fingered his clerical collar until it came loose, and he tossed it aside, opening up the collar so Castiel had room to move his neck. He then took the bandage Kevin offered him, and slapped it squarely over Castiel’s wound, which had begun to bleed again, blood running into the water on his leg hair.

“We’re gonna keep this pressure up for a few minutes, Cas,” Dean said. “Gotta stop the bleeding before we check how bad it is. Let’s chat for a bit.” He tapped Castiel’s knee with his free hand. “C’mon, what’s your favourite colour?”

“Orange,” Castiel said, eyes closing. “Yours?”

“Pink,” Dean grinned. “Pretty ballet pink.” He glanced up at Kevin, whose eyebrows were displacing themselves out of disbelief. “What, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, shut up.”

“I said nothing,” Kevin said, with a smirk. “So who stabbed you, preacherman? Should we be calling the cops?”

“No,” Castiel breathed, wincing in pain. His fingers clenched in the bed’s tissue, tearing it where his clothes had made it wet. “No, I— Not going to press ch... charges.”

“Why not?” Kevin asked.

“No, don’t ask him that,” Dean said, turning to Kevin. “It’s the patient’s own business what they do or don’t report. He’s not going to press charges, leave it at that.”

“I want to answer,” Castiel said, fingers sliding down to curl around Dean’s wrist. “But...” His eyes opened and he looked down at Kevin, who loitered around his knees beside the ultrasound machine: an alien-looking computer with a rectangular bulk, dozens of buttons, and keyboard with a screen at the waist-height.

Dean hesitated, then looked across at Kevin. “Hey, uh, could you give us a little privacy?”

Kevin looked put-out, but Dean gave him a stern glare, and Kevin left without argument. Tracy watched him stalk out of the patients’ room, then came to Castiel’s section, looking confused. She drew the curtains shut, and before Dean could repeat the instruction he’d given Kevin, Tracy leaned in close to Dean and whispered, “I want to do the ultrasound.”

Dean stared at her mascara-thick eyelashes and glossed lips. “Why?”

“It’s great practice,” Tracy said. “I’ve never tried it on a live patient.”

Dean held his breath for a moment, staring at his protégée. While he himself had gone the specialised route of patient care and hygiene, Tracy had more favoured the forensic side of things. For her, nursing was a stepping stone to bigger and better things – postmortem examination and diagnosis, to be specific.

This wasn’t exactly good timing, but hey, Dean had no right to hold Tracy back. He sighed, smiled, and turned to Castiel. “Once the bleeding’s stopped, is it fine with you if Nurse Tracy here does the ultrasound? It’s the same method we use to see the babies inside pregnant people, you’ve probably seen it on TV. It’s just, she’s still learning and it would—”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Yes, you can. But what’s it for?”

Dean grinned, and nudged Tracy in the arm. “You wanna explain?”

Tracy’s face lit up and she leaned forward, beaming down at Castiel. “We put a little gel on this sensor, and put it on your leg, and it sends out sound waves which bounce around inside you – then turns the information into a picture so we can see the wound from inside. We’ll be able to tell what the knife hit, how damaged the interior tissue is, and if there’s any debris left inside your leg.” She sent a quick glance up to Dean, then smiled smugly. “I also want to see if I can tell what kind of knife your attacker used.”

“It was a—”

“Sh, don’t tell her,” Dean said, waving a hand. “Let her figure it out, then tell her if she’s right.”

Castiel smiled, and Dean’s heart beat soundly, glad to see he was stabilising. Dean licked his lips, then swung his eyes to Tracy. “Okay, come back here in about eight minutes. I’ll keep pressure on this until then.”

Tracy nodded, backing away. “Can we bring other patients through?”

“Yeah, just keep the curtains closed.”

Their section was left draped in calming blue as Tracy left. Castiel sighed, eyes shutting, head sinking into his pillow.

“You doing okay?” Dean asked, fingers touching Castiel’s forearm where it lay on the bed. “Be honest. Tell me everything you feel, major or minor.”

“Uh— Um.” Castiel opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “My leg is hurting.”

“What sort of pain?”

“Throbbing. Feels hot. And there’s soreness near the top, the pressure you’re putting on it makes it ache.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Kinda have to, though.”

“I know,” Castiel said kindly. His eyes met Dean’s, and there was a warm fondness in his expression. “This is the first time I’ve been stabbed.”

“Well... good,” Dean smiled. “Tell me what happened?”

Castiel took a breath and rolled his face away, parting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “He waited until my sermon was over. I give speeches on Thursday evenings – and Sundays, but the Thursday ones attract a different crowd. Everyone but the elderly, people on their way home from work. Small group.” He breathed in slowly. “I, um. I talked about sodomy. It didn’t go down well.”

Dean laughed sharply, then leaned closer as he heard another patient being shown into the room, Kevin chatting to them. “So, what,” Dean said under his breath, “you told your flock that God put prostates in the butt for a reason?”

Castiel hummed a laugh, then recoiled in pain, suddenly breathing hard. Dean set his hand on Castiel’s chest, hushing him, soothing him. Castiel grabbed his hand and held it, squeezing with his weakened grip.

Eventually his breathing settled, and he consciously relaxed. Dean took a quick second to check the bleeding wound, lifting the bandage with his left hand. It began to well up with red, so Dean pressed it down again, reapplying pressure.

“No,” Castiel answered at last. “The word ‘sodomy’ is meant to refer to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. That is, non-consensual sex, not anal sex.”

“Really?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Wow, the kids I knew breezed past that bit in middle school.” He slid his sneakers back, leaning forward to rest his weight on the gurney.

“I’m not surprised,” Castiel said dully. “Nor was I too surprised when I was attacked for stating the truth. My flock is largely an open-minded group, but there are some who have found themselves institutionalised by common belief. It’s true of anywhere, not just here. To revoke that belief, or to bring it under scrutiny, is as bad as—” He looked away, eyes roaming. “I don’t know. It’s unheard of.”

Castiel sighed, and his eyes drifted towards Dean. “I remember when I first began to question what I’d been taught. You saw how fragile I became.”

“That’s what that was? All the crying and the hugging, that was you having a religious freakout?”

Castiel smile was coy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I had nobody, Dean. Only the internet, and a mind which was rapidly becoming overwhelmed by new realisations. I felt like I’d been an empty box before. Taped shut. And then—” He took a deep breath, eyes closing in pain. He sighed. “Then I was ripped open. Began to fill with things, with knowledge.”

“And now you’re all full up and you’re ready to educate everyone else.”

Castiel peeked through squinched-up eyes, holding Dean’s gaze. “Perhaps I ought to go slower. Give everyone else’s minds time to adjust.”

Dean hummed, rolling his eyes in a disarming way. “Tell me again why you’re not pressing charges?”

“I hold no grudge,” Castiel said, before flinching and gripping Dean’s hand tighter. He took a few moments to settle, but spoke through the pain: “God will punish my attacker as He sees fit.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Sure. But what if that knife-wielding maniac goes around and stabs someone else, what then?”

Castiel parted his lips, grimacing once, but his eyes stayed open, watching Dean with a thoughtful expression.

Dean gave him a tiny, sad smile. “God works in mysterious ways, right? What if right now He’s speaking through me?” Dean grinned suddenly, and put on a bold, deep voice to say, “ _Thou shalt face consequences if thou stabbeth Dean’s friends in the leg._ ”

Castiel’s smirk was definitely a fond smirk. “You’re saying I should act as God’s marionette in this situation.”

Dean pursed his lips. “More like a figurehead. The universe told you what to do, it’s your duty to go off and do it.”

Castiel blinked twice, then turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I thought you weren’t supposed to influence your patients’ non-medical decisions.”

Dean chuckled. “I’m not meant to hold their hands, either.”

Their eyes met, and Dean felt a rush of sea spray cover him, excitable emotion. Oh, boy. Exquisite – so _exquisite_ to experience – but still daunting. The corners of his lips curled up, attention flicking between each of Cas’ eyes.

Castiel’s gaze dipped to Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s entire body flooded with shock and anticipation.

What if...?

Castiel’s fingers stretched out, spreading between Dean’s; Dean’s heart leapt, his smile twitching wider. He kept pressure on Castiel’s wound but his other hand couldn’t help getting distracted. They held tight to each other, fingers interlocked.

Castiel moved his chin by a fraction of an inch, lips breaking apart in a slow reveal of the tip of his tongue, wetting the rim of his mouth – why? In preparation for a kiss...?

Castiel’s eyes lifted back to Dean’s, and there was never any look so inviting. Near-soundlessly, Castiel breathed, “ _Come here, Dean_.”

Dean started to lean down, breaths unsteady and too hot in his mouth. He skimmed his tongue over his lips as his hand squeezed on Cas’ fingers, as his eyes fell half-shut of their own accord, mind spinning, dizzy, feet numb, body craning over the gurney.

Dean paused, inches from Castiel’s face, hovering to cast an intimate shadow over his friend’s eyes. Their gaze held, both their mouths slightly open. It was warm in this harbour, and Dean was sure Cas could hear his heartbeat.

Cas’ breath smelled like honey.

Ravenous now, Dean couldn’t wait any longer; he was drawn down by the gravity of his need, his sigh washing over Castiel’s face as he sank—

The curtain drew back and Tracy entered – Dean only saw her because he stood up and looked back, his heart racing. Tracy didn’t hesitate at the sight before her; she gestured over her shoulder and said, “Paramedic’s here.”

Shit.

Dean let go of Castiel’s hand and stood back from the gurney, rubbing at the nape of his neck. He put on a light smile as he saw Victor Henriksen strolling into the patients’ room, his black paramedic’s uniform close-fitting across his shoulders, showing off his glorious dark-skinned arm muscles.

“Hey, man,” Dean grinned, taking three strides past the curtain to wrestle Victor into a rough hug, slapping his back.

“Ahh, how you doin’, huh?” Victor asked in that self-assured voice of his. Dean grunted as Victor squeezed too tight, lifting him off the ground for a split second, then letting him go.

“I’m real good, actually,” Dean sighed, hand still on his friend’s shoulder as he gestured to Castiel’s gurney. “This here’s Cas. Castiel Breckenridge. Stab wound to the left thigh, no excessive swelling, condition’s looking stable. Might need some acetaminophen once he’s transferred.” He smiled gratefully at Tracy, who had stepped in to put pressure back on the wound after Dean had darted away.

“All right, let’s get you moving,” Victor grinned. “Got a bed down at the hospital for ya, trip’s only a couple minutes in our ambulance. Got it idling out front.” He unlatched his radio from his belt and raised it to his mouth, then spoke into it, eyes shifting away. “Patient’s stable.” He let the radio button go and glanced down at Castiel, who looked spooked. “Can you walk?”

Castiel looked over at Dean, pleading in his eyes, then turned back to Victor and shook his head. He pressed his lips together, and his fingers scrambled at Tracy’s hand, trying to make her let go of the bandage. Dean stepped forward and took over again, letting Tracy step back as Victor went off, chatting into his radio about getting the ambulance’s gurney into the building.

“It’s gonna be okay, Cas,” Dean said, reaching for Cas’ hand again. “Look at me. Look at me, buddy.”

Castiel looked up, a muscle trembling in his neck.

“They’re gonna take you down to the hospital. Meg’ll talk to Victor, maybe Tracy can go with them and do the ultrasound over there.”

Dean heard a quiet “ _Yesss,_ ” from behind him.

Castiel began to shiver. “I don’t— Dean, wh-what about you, I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey, Cas, it’s okay. You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got patients to see to here, waiting room was packed before you came in.” He swallowed, looking down at his own hand where it grasped Castiel’s bare thigh. The bandage was budding with red, but the bleed had mostly stopped by now.

Dean felt Castiel’s hand curl around his right wrist, and when Dean peered down at him, he saw tears in the other man’s eyes. “Why can’t I stay here?” Castiel asked softly. He glanced over at Tracy then back to Dean, voice lowering to a needy whisper, “Why can’t _you_ come with me instead?”

Dean shut his eyes and breathed out, curling his lower lip between his teeth. “It’s a bad idea, Cas.”

“Why?”

Dean strained to pull away, hands shaking as he grabbed Tracy and made her take over. “You know why,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you real soon, okay? Don’t be a stranger.”

“Dean—” Castiel called after him. There was desperation in his cracking voice, close to keening. “Dean!”

Dean ran from the patients’ room, crashing into Victor’s gurney as he left. Panting, he pushed himself up, catching Victor’s eye as he did.

“Hey, hey – Winchester,” Victor said, grabbing Dean’s shoulder before he could escape back to the waiting room. “The hell’s up with you?”

“Nothing. Jeez, I’m—” He batted Victor’s hand off, trying to edge past. “I’m just going through some stuff, okay, leave me alone.” He tore his gloves off and cupped his fingers over his mouth as he pushed through the narrow hallway, clipping his thigh on the gurney as he did. His leg seared with pain, pounding hotly for a few seconds, but it began to dull by the time he reached Meg’s desk.

And by the time he reached Meg’s desk, he was ready to cry.

“Okay, that’s new,” Meg said, giving Dean a long stare. “Cas is okay, isn’t he—?”

“He’s fine,” Dean forced out. He tensed his jaw, kicking uselessly at the floor as he swung his gaze away. It was dark outside, streetlights illuminating a tall, long-haired figure approaching the clinic. Dean recognised the man but his mind was rife with strange emotions and he sat down furiously, planting his face into his hands. “I think I’m in love.”

Meg laughed brutishly for about five seconds, then sobered. “Wait, you’re serious.”

Dean peered up at her between his fingers, startled to see her white face and black hair swimming around in his own tears. “Meg, I don’t fucking know what to _do_ with this feeling. I kind of wanna – kiss him and cuddle him and – _fuck_.” He paused. “Shit, I mean, like, ‘oh fuck, I’m really screwed right now’, not ‘I wanna sit on his dick’.”

“I got that,” Meg said, but was distracted by a lot of noise behind Dean. Dean didn’t look up to see what it was, but he could guess: firstly, the rattling wheeled bed carrying Castiel had left the patients’ room and was heading towards the front door, and secondly, a new patient had entered and was holding the door open for the hospital’s gurney.

“Oh, hi, man. Thanks,” Victor said, distantly.

“No problem,” replied Dean’s brother. Dean bristled and leapt off Meg’s stool, turning around so quickly he had to grab the desk for balance.

“Sam!” Dean shouted across the waiting room. He regretted the shout immediately: Victor looked up, pausing with Castiel’s gurney halfway out the door, so not only were Victor, Sam and Castiel all now staring at Dean, so was most – no, wait, _all_ of the waiting patients.

Dean stumbled back a step and gulped.

Sam started to grin, and looked back once to nod at Victor, then carried on towards the front desk where Dean was now shaking on his feet. Victor saluted Dean and dragged the gurney outside into the street, but Castiel’s face haunted Dean’s vision for a good many seconds, bumping out of the glass doors, then angled around the corner to take him to the ambulance.

Sam approached the desk, a hulking shadow in the corner of Dean’s eye. “Hey, Dean. Meg. Kevin! Hi. I brought you those cookies Mom promised you,” Sam said. “She put M&Ms on them this time.”

Dean wasn’t even looking at him. Sam clearly thought that was out of character, so checked behind him to find out what could possibly be more interesting than their mother’s freshly-baked gingerbread treats.

Lit by the streetlights, shaded by orange tree leaves, Castiel’s forlorn face drifted out of view through the glass, very obviously betrayed and on the verge of tears.

Sam turned to Dean and took a breath. “Who was that?”

“Dean’s boyfriend,” Meg said, with a lilt of satisfaction. “Or his one true love, depending on how severe you think Dean’s Princess Syndrome is.”

Dean cringed, leaning himself back against the bulletin board behind Meg’s desk. He felt a bit dazed, but not enough to avoid recognising that Sam was about to ask a very uncomfortable question.

“You have a boyfriend? Since when?”

“Since never,” Dean said roughly, head down. “I’m not into—”

Tracy bounded up to him and put a kiss on his cheek, hitting him in his bruised thigh with her bag. Dean gritted his teeth, but managed a smile when Tracy said, “Thanks a bajillion. Seriously, I’ll make it up to you! Free autopsy or something.” She was about to run off but paused. “Ooh, are those Mary’s cookies? Gimmie. Quick, I gotta go!”

Sam undid the Ziploc bag and let Tracy steal a cookie. Dean’s breath hastened as he watched her run off. She ran into the door and shoved it open, cramming her cookie into her mouth as she sprinted down the street.

Dean had a terrible, terrible feeling that he was missing his chance.

“Too late, sucker,” Meg said, slamming a clipboard onto Dean’s hand. “Only one ride-along allowed in the ambulance, and it ain’t you. Buckle your pants and get back to work, there’s ten people to get through before you’re allowed a break.”

Dean fingered the clipboard, unable to look at his brother.

“Um,” Sam said. “Look, I get this is a bad time...” Dean forced his eyes up, and saw Sam staring straight at him, with his hazel-green eyes and floppy hair and concerned expression. Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Meg, then back to Dean. “Dean, what’s going on?”

Dean ran a hand down his face, a thumb pressing one eye into a sparkling darkness. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, what’s new?” Kevin chuckled from beside the desk, passing by as he went to call a new patient. Dean glared half-heartedly after him, then slumped a few inches down the bulletin board, knocking a pin loose.

“Take five, Dean,” Meg said, snatching the clipboard. “I’ll cover your patients, just get this beanstalk out of the way. You owe me a cookie.”

“Who was that man on the wheely bed?” Sam asked.

“Nobody – he was nobody. Look, I’m not doing this now, Sam. Thanks for dropping by.” Dean shook his head, reaching for the clipboard again before Meg could make off with it. “Tell Mom I said thanks for the cookies.”

“Dean—” Sam hurried after Dean as he left the desk, but Dean held up his clipboard in his face and put on a professional smile, calling for one Mrs. Singh.

Sam stood out of the way as Mrs. Singh hobbled past. “Guess I’ll see you at Mom’s Halloween party, then,” he said cheerfully – but Dean caught sight of his expression, and he did not look at all satisfied.

 _Screw satisfied_ , Dean thought. He had already revealed more to Sam than he’d been willing to. The more he thought about it now, the more he dwelled on Cas’ aching soul, or the beautiful pressure Dean felt in his belly when Cas was around, the more confused he got. It would please nobody if Sam found out Dean was as ambivalent about his sexuality now as he was when he was fifteen.

So Dean left his brother alone and bewildered in the waiting room, and he tried his very best to wipe Cas (and the smell of honey, and the pain of the bruise on his leg, and the guilt that came with all of it) from his mind and get on with his life.

Suffice to say, it didn’t work. Not even a little bit.

 

 

Dean stood outside hospital room 205 with a Tupperware box of cookies in his hands. He could smell nothing but boiled cabbage and bleach, and couldn’t look away from the white sky beyond the window. The window was all the way across a hospital room, speckled grey lino between his boots and the far wall. The door was wide open, he just couldn’t walk through.

He heard bleeping in the background, and a mess of distant, echoing voices. A single laugh, then a ringing phone.

He shut his eyes and hung his head, raising one hand to push his glasses closer to his eyes. He let his leather jacket stretch back as he lowered his hand again, and he checked his wristwatch. _11:45_. Only forty-five minutes until lunch; visitors weren’t allowed to see patients then.

Dean took a fast breath as someone swept past him, cool air rushing over his neck.

“Yo, you okay?” the guy asked, pausing with a stack of boxes in his arms. He had friendly brown eyes, and a polished-wood complexion that was unfortunately reflective of the hospital lights.

Dean took a few seconds to reply. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m, uh – visiting a friend.” He pulled up the part of his purple t-shirt that had his visitor’s sticker on it.

“You know what room your friend’s in?”

Dean pushed up a shy smile. “This one. That’s his bed on the left.” He nodded to indicate the unmoving lilac curtain. There were four patient beds in the room, and only Castiel’s had the curtains drawn.

The man shifted his boxes. “Well,” he said, “don’t let the privacy screen deter you. That guy’s been about as cheerful as Oscar the Grouch, and he likes his world small. Hey, you one of his sheep? He keeps talking about shepherds and flocks and God testing him.”

Dean grinned, thumbs smoothing over the corners of his cookie box. “Nah, I’m not one of his flock. I’m – probably the one who ordered that holy pop quiz, to be honest.”

“Oh,” the man said. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

Dean looked up, holding the man’s eye. The man started to smile, then went forward two steps and put all his boxes down on a nearby chair.

He straightened up, folding his arms over his grey scrubs. “Either there’s something really special about you, man, or Father Breckenridge needs more time with Jesus than he already got.”

Dean bit down on his lip, feeling the uneasiness in his gut double, then triplicate. He frowned deeply, letting out a breath.

The other nurse didn’t speak, so Dean gathered himself up, and shook his head before he replied. “I’m not that special. Cas sees something in me that I’m— Man, I’m not even sure I see it myself. And that was kinda nice at the start, made me feel good. Him coming back to me for medical treatment was a massive compliment. You get what I mean, don’t you?” The nurse nodded with a smile, and Dean smirked.

“But then he came back again. And again. And now I can’t tell if I feel good when he’s there because I wanna feel the way he makes me feel: needed, and like I’m actually doing well at what I love, and I’m part of something _bigger_ , you know? God, the universe. Cas is important for the world, or whatever, and when I’m with him I am too. I don’t feel that a whole lot.”

He looked at the nurse, who peered back, listening in silence.

Dean wet his lips and went on, “Either I feel good because of something _he’s_ doing – or otherwise, it’s because of something inside me. Like love. Romantic, totally non-platonic love.”

The man was probably smirking, but Dean didn’t want to see it so didn’t look.

“Point is,” Dean said, “I’ve got no freaking idea which one it is. And I don’t wanna hurt him. If I confirm one or the other, and turns out I’m wrong, I’m not just hurting someone I care about, I’m in trouble with Heaven’s Big Guy. At least, Cas would think so. I mean, he’s, sort of...”

Dean didn’t want to say it aloud, but the thought rested like sugar on his tongue. _He’s precious_.

Dean sighed. It was a heartbroken sigh, and it felt like shimmering lights evacuating his body, hope slowly becoming defeated.

He glanced over at the other nurse, checking his nametag. “Jeremiah,” Dean read. He gulped and peeled back the lid of his box and thrust it the other guy. “Take a goddamn cookie and pretend this never happened. Made ‘em myself.”

“Thanks, man,” Jeremiah said, plucking out a chocolate-coated coconut cookie. “You want some advice?”

“Sure, why not,” Dean said, taking a sugar-sprinkled lemon-zested thing and stuffing it into his mouth.

Jeremiah didn’t say anything, just stared. Dean munched and crunched his cookie until it was gone, staring back at the shorter man the whole time.

“Never mind,” Jeremiah said. “Just take your cookies and tell him you’re glad he’s okay. He’ll appreciate it.”

Dean smiled as Jeremiah patted him on the shoulder, then collected up his boxes and went on his way. Dean sagged on his feet, holding even tighter to his cookie box.

“Goddamn it, don’t be such a wuss,” Dean said to himself. “You’re a frickin’ Winchester. Man up.”

The voice inside his head said, altogether too cheerfully, _Go tell that pretty asexual of the Lord that you’re totally gay for him._

“Fuck,” Dean said, then marched into the room.

He took a left and paused at the lilac curtain. The plain cloth drifted in the breeze he’d created. He looked to the right, seeing a fat, old woman staring at him, propped up on the pillows of her hospital bed. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, then raised a fist to knock on the curtain.

The knock was more of a swipe, but it caught Castiel’s attention anyway. “Come in,” he said.

Dean sucked on his lower lip, then – after another moment of hesitation – pulled back the curtain and stepped inside.

It was gloomy in the small space, just big enough to fit a few chairs around the bed, small enough to be called cramped. There was no light on; the daylight crested the white ceiling and gave a subtle glow to their alcove.

“Oh... Hello, Dean.”

Castiel was sitting up in bed, a magazine in his lap, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Dean grinned with a sigh, a significant part of him delighted to know they both had terrible eyesight. He adjusted his own glasses and went straight for the single chair beside the bed, which had a shawl draped over it.

“Is it okay if I move this?” Dean asked, glancing at Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel said, taking off his glasses and gesturing between the chair and his bed. “It belongs to Agatha, one of the women from my flock.”

“You’re getting visitors already. Awesome,” Dean said, laying the shawl over Castiel’s blanketed knees. “I – I made you cookies... Um. Here.” He held out the box, feeling a flicker of joy when Castiel smiled and reached to take it.

Dean sat down heavily in the chair, mildly embarrassed when all the air rushed out of the cushion and it made a fart noise. “Chair,” he explained, even though Castiel hadn’t asked.

“I’m glad you came, Dean,” Castiel said, setting his folded glasses and the cookie box down on the heart monitor beside the bed. “I was hoping you would.”

Dean exhaled, leaning over his knees, head bowed. “I feel like an ass.”

“I’m sure you will overcome it.” Castiel’s eyes twinkled when Dean looked up. “I can’t deny that I feel a little glad, however.”

“You feel glad ‘cause I feel like shit? Wow, yeah. I fall for all the right people.”

Castiel was perfectly silent, face impassive.

Dean breathed out explosively, leaning back in his seat and resting his wrists over his denimed thighs. “Look, I kind of came here to – apologise.”

“Things were out of your control,” Castiel reasoned. “You had other patients to see, and Tracy rode with me in the ambulance, so there was no room for you. I hold nothing against you.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a total pushover?” Dean scoffed. “C’mon, Cas, you know as well as I do that I could’ve driven after you. Hell, I could’ve given you one of my mom’s gingerbread cookies on the way out. Fuck knows why I didn’t. Fuck knows why I do anything.”

“‘Fuck’ must be very valuable resource, then.”

“Don’t you get smart with me,” Dean said, unable to keep from grinning. “I’m trying to say sorry, all right?” Slowly, his smile fell; he looked at Castiel in earnest. “You needed me, and I skipped out.”

Castiel turned his face away, shaking his head slightly. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept all night. “Our relationship is an unusual one, Dean. For one thing, I was never certain you would – or could – return my affections. Last night was the confirmation I needed for two things. Firstly, that you are interested in me – but to what degree, I cannot say.” Dean shut his eyes, heart beating in his ears. “Secondly, I now know that you don’t feel comfortable pursuing a romantic relationship. I’m okay with that, Dean. I want you as my friend and I would be honoured to interact you in that fashion, no more than you’re comfortable with.”

Dean’s mind howled with a cacophony of potential replies, but none offered themselves up as the right thing to say. And so, he said nothing. He looked far to the right, staring at the curtain.

“May I ask... Who is Sam, to you?” Castiel’s voice wavered for some reason.

Dean huffed. “Sam’s my brother.”

“Oh! I thought—” He exhaled. “No. No, never mind what I thought.”

Turning his gaze to his lap, he went on, “Dean, about last night.” His voice became quiet, and he continued, “A fractured sense of romance is what restrained you, I think. My desire to kiss you scared you out of giving me the support I needed. I went through the ultrasound with Tracy, that was okay. I was given painkillers, and put on a course of antibiotics to prevent later infection. But then I needed emergency surgery to drain a sudden swelling, then an x-ray – which revealed that my bone has been scored by the knife. It was a five-inch utility knife, serrated edge. I knew before Tracy figured it out; it’s the same kind I use to harvest honeycomb.”

“Go Tracy,” Dean smiled.

Castiel didn’t smile. “It was a very long, stressful process. I wept a number of times, I had to be sedated once when I—” He swallowed hard, looking down at his lap. “I got very upset. I feel as if I’ve been in this place for a week.”

“You’ve been here fifteen hours,” Dean said. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Sunday,” he added, when Castiel looked at him. “Guess you missed your Sunday sermon earlier.”

“I need somebody, Dean,” Castiel said, breathlessly. His head tilted, but not in confusion – in yearning, pleading. “I’m so alone. I’m so—” He sobbed, a hand moving to cover his mouth. “I’m so alone here.”

Dean got up from his chair, hearing it hiss as it filled with air again. He reached for Castiel, hand curling around his neck, the other curving past his shoulders and bringing him in for a hug. Castiel leaned into him, sobbing, shaking.

Dean rested his cheek on Castiel’s head, smelling old sweat on his skin, grease in his hair. His hospital gown was wide open at the back, and Dean shut his eyes so he didn’t see his buttocks. He was so _warm_.

Castiel pulled himself together pretty quickly, but even once he stopped crying, he wrapped his arms around Dean and wouldn’t let go, sighing lengthily under Dean’s shirt collar.

“What about the lady who left her shawl?” Dean murmured, easing Castiel back to rest against the propped-up pillows. “Isn’t she your friend?”

“She talks about God,” Castiel said. “And she prays, and she blesses me.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“I like hugs,” Castiel said, holding onto Dean’s hand, making Dean reach for his chair with his other hand and pull it closer to sit. “Physical contact. Conversation about things I haven’t talked about before. I don’t need to know God’s there for me, I already know that. I want a _person_.”

“You got me,” Dean shrugged.

“Yes.” Castiel nodded. Then his eyes lowered to where he held Dean’s hand, fingers laced together. “I need to ask a favour of you.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Uh, okay?”

“If you go to my chapel, and follow the rose path back, go under the oak tree, then the elms, you’ll get to my house. There’s a key under the doormat. The cat food’s in a low shelf on the left when you walk in, I need you to pour out a lot of it. Shilo wasn’t fed last night, I can’t imagine how upset she must be. Her babies are due in a week.”

“Shit,” Dean whispered, sinking down. “Cas, I’m allergic. I can’t.”

Castiel bit his lip, eyes shining. “There is nobody else I trust.”

“That can’t be true,” Dean said. “Cas, that’s freaking insane, how can you not know anyone who cares enough to feed your damn cat? You barely know me!”

Castiel seemed to chew on his tongue for a few moments. Then he sighed. “I suppose I could let Agatha go.”

“You suppose,” Dean repeated, letting go of Castiel’s hand, leaning back again. “Yeah, you do that.”

“Dean, why are you angry?”

“Angr— I’m not angry,” Dean spluttered. “I’m completely _baffled_. You see dozens of people a day, you got people hovering around who care. You have friends, you told me months back that they’re not the greatest, but you do have some. I don’t get it, man. Why me? Why do you trust me?”

“Why do you care?” Castiel replied.

“Because it’s weird!”

“No,” Castiel said, raising a hand, fingers spread. “I mean, why do you _care_. Why did you go into nursing in the first place, why do you hug me when I ask for a hug? Why did you come and visit me in hospital today, when you still had the option to treat me like any other patient, and let me come to you, rather than the other way around? Why, Dean, do you _care_ so much? About me? About everything?”

Dean sat there, utterly stumped.

Castiel smiled. “I’ve never known someone to be so selfless. You may not see it, but I do. I saw it from the moment I met you, Dean. You soothe me. You soothe me, and you excite me.”

Dean heard the word ‘excite’ and couldn’t prevent the headrush it brought. He parted his lips and exhaled, eyes unfocused.

“Nobody else makes me feel that way, Dean. Nobody ever has. Thousands of people seek my advice, my consolation. Never have I sought out anyone but God when I needed those same things. Then I met you and I realised I could have it. I found something I didn’t know I was missing.”

“You know this sounds like something out of a telenova screenplay, right?” Dean said under his breath.

“I’ve been reading _Cosmopolitan_ , perhaps that’s why,” Castiel said, lifting his magazine. Dean saw a flash of Kim Kardashian on the extremely pink cover before Castiel let the magazine flop back to his lap. “But I mean every word I say, Dean. I’ve never been in love before, but—”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean wheezed, hands gripping his hair as he leaned forward. “Love. Seriously, you’re going for ‘in love’?”

“Well... yes?”

Dean rocked his head to the side, his lower lip easing between bared teeth. “I... Fuck, I can’t do this.” He stood up. “I’m real glad you’re okay, and I’m glad we’re friends, but God, Cas, please don’t ruin it. I— No, I can’t.” He stepped towards the curtain, a hand out to stop Castiel saying anything else. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I am— Enjoy your cookies.”

He swallowed, looking over Castiel’s unhappy form one last time before stepping out and slipping the curtain closed behind him. His breath came out shaking, and he blinked, only to see that old woman staring at him from across the room again. He shook his head and stalked out into the cabbage-scented hallway, no less disturbed by his feelings than he was when he went in.

It took exactly four days before Dean stopped worrying about the damn cat every time he drove past the chapel, reminding himself that Agatha would’ve fed the animal, and if she hadn’t then Jeremiah would’ve, or Mr. Law-Abiding Christian or Brother Monk or Preacher Saint George or the goddamn _mayor_ , or any other of Castiel’s numerous acquaintances. No doubt many of them had been to the house before, and didn’t need to fear sneezing their eyeballs out if they went within ten feet of the fur-coated upholstery.

Cas had this weird way of making Dean feel guilty about things he probably didn’t need to feel guilty about. Like sending a trainee in the ambulance instead of leaving his busy post himself, bang in the middle of a work shift. Or freaking out and running out of a hospital because nobody ever told him they loved him in a romantic way before and it was really kind of scary the first time.

Meg sighed and put a folder back into the shelf. “You forgot the bit where he was a dude with a penis,” she said. “And the bit where you’re not gay. And the bit where you haven’t figured out what your label is yet, but it’s definitely not ‘bisexual’.”

“I was getting to all of that,” Dean said sulkily, hunching further over his thermos flask of coffee. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and he would need the caffeine to get through the next eight hours, at which time he would fall face-first into his bed at home. The current conversation, according to Meg, was as tepid as the drink.

“Here’s an idea,” Meg said brightly. “How about you don’t bother covering all the bases today. I’ve already heard your monologue thirty-five times in the last half-week, I don’t need to hear it again.” She snapped another folder shut and filed it alongside the first. “Tell me, sweetcheeks, how many times have you googled for pictures of naked men?”

Dean coughed up half-swallowed coffee, and had to swallow again. “Why the hell do you wanna know?”

“I don’t, I’m just making a point,” Meg said. “You didn’t blurt out ‘none, never, absolutely zero’, which, to me, indicates you’re a fraction of the way closer to escaping the toxic river of denial you have seeping out of every freckle and pore. Good news for me, because I am so _very_ done with hearing how _not_ into dudes you are.”

Dean sipped accusingly at his coffee.

“How about you call yourself a biromantic heterosexual and have it over with, huh? Accept that it’s perfectly natural to fall in love with a guy one time.”

“But I don’t wanna have sex with him,” Dean complained. “That confuses the hell outta me!”

“I know!” Meg slammed a folder on the desk, making a sound reminiscent of Chernobyl and startling Dean into spilling coffee down his sky-blue scrubs. “I _know_ you’re confused. I know you think boys are pretty and yet – oh, what’s this?! – you don’t want to touch their junk!? Big deal, Winchester! What else is new?”

Dean said nothing.

Meg eventually simmered down, and threw a pen at Dean as a last, rather spiritless reprisal. “You feel guilty about everything because that’s who you are. Cas was right. You care more than a fucking Care Bear. There’s sympathy and empathy and candy-coated schmoop smothering your every waking thought, no wonder you can’t see what you have with him for what it is.”

“Which is what?”

“A decent shot at happiness,” Meg said. She’d stopped filing, which was significant. She stood on the waiting room side of the desk, hip resting against it. On the far left of the waiting room, Dean sat on the floor with his back to the window and held on to his coffee, watching the grey daylight shine on its rim, not looking up at Meg in case she appeared halfway human for once.

“You know, I don’t get you, Dean. Once, maybe twice in a lifetime people meet their unicorn. But you meet yours and you run away. What are you scared of? Because I’m telling you now, that magic horn ain’t as spiky as the fairytales make it sound.”

“What _is_ it with you and unicorns?” Dean muttered.

“I went full-out punk as a teenager,” Meg said derisively. “Peer pressure to wear studs and listen to angry music made me miserable. Unicorns were my happy place.”

Dean scoffed, smiling down at his flask. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Meg sighed, patting the desk, then going to sit beside Dean, her back to the window too. She snatched his coffee and took a sip, swilling it around her mouth before swallowing. “Takes like shit.”

“You made it.”

“Consider me ashamed,” Meg said, kicking Dean’s sneaker with her purple Croc.

They sat in silence for a minute.

Then Dean sighed. “You know that story, about the grasshopper and the ants? By that Ancient Greek guy... what was his name...? Aesop. The grasshopper’s bouncing around all summer, and the ants are like ‘dude, build a house and put some food in it or you’re gonna starve in winter’. And the grasshopper’s like, ‘nah, brah, I’m good’, and carries on with his life all summer, ‘cause that summer’s a damn fine summer. Right?”

“Mm-hm,” Meg hummed, nose in Dean’s flask.

“And then winter comes and the grasshopper’s all ‘ah, shit, I’m fucking freezing’ and he goes to the ants and begs for some of their shelter and food. And I can’t remember if the ants give him anything. I can’t remember if the grasshopper makes it, or if he dies. Maybe that’s the point, maybe that’s where I’m at. There’s this pressing need for me to deal with stuff I haven’t prepared for. And life, the universe and everything is telling me I should’ve sorted this shit out earlier.”

“Ha,” Meg said, swirling around the last dregs of the coffee. “Your unicorn’s waiting and you’re still stuck on the gay panic of ninety-three.”

Dean laughed softly, scratching at his forehead. “Yeah.”

Then he sighed, resting his forearms on his folded knees. “I think I’m scared of those gay-pride ants telling me I’m not allowed in. I’m in my thirties, nobody figures out they’re twenty percent gay when they’re my age.”

“Sure they do. ‘Specially if they’re a homophobic Republican with a hand and a foot in politics,” Meg said dryly. “And – wait, twenty percent gay?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe thirty percent. Being in love with a guy is kind of a scale-tipper.”

“Ah- _ha_ ,” Meg said, with vainglorious slowness.

Dean caught her eye, then bumped her in the shoulder and smirked. “Shut your goddamn face, witch.”

“Dick.”

“Yep. Twelve inches more dick than you.”

When Meg laughed and shoved Dean, he guffawed (feeling a little relieved), and he shoved her back. Neither of them really cared when the remainder of the coffee ended up on the carpet; it was kinda liberating to have a careless moment, buried together under a mountain of caring a great deal too much.

 

 

Dean breathed out through pursed lips, calming himself as he listened to the phone line ringing. He’d pulled Castiel’s number out of the form he’d filled in months back, but Dean didn’t have the courage to make the call with the clinic’s phone, because then he’d have to do it _in front of people_. He felt less self-conscious in private.

The call was answered on the fifth ring, and a wide smile spread across Dean’s cheeks when he heard a huffy voice at the other end. “ _Hello?_ ”

“Hey, Cas. It’s me.”

“ _Uh, who— Wait... Dean?_ ”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Dean rubbed his fingertips on his neck, feeling a prickle of pleasure that Cas had recognised him by voice alone – or maybe by the nickname he’d used. “Listen, I was... Was kind of wondering if you wanted—”

He gulped and stopped talking, staring across the staff room at the poster about proper hand-washing technique pinned above the sink. _Be professional_ , he reminded himself, and took another breath to speak. “I’m calling to tell you we want to see you as part of a follow-up. I- I mean ‘we’, as in, the clinic. For medical reasons.”

“ _A checkup?_ ”

Dean exhaled. “Yeah. Looking to see how you’re doing with that leg of yours. It’s been a week, I just figured...”

“ _It’s getting better. I’m walking with a cane now._ ”

“Oh, okay. That’s cool, I guess.” Dean frowned and shut his eyes, running the tip of his thumb across his forehead. “What— What time is good for you? We ought to make an appointment.”

“ _How about this evening?_ ” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded, head down. God, he was so glad nobody else was in this room to see him blush like this. “Sounds good. Any time after eight would be fine, we tend to be less busy after then. You can just show up whenever.”

“ _I can be there at ten._ ”

“Awesome,” Dean said, a grin fluttering over his lips. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

“ _...Me too,_ ” Castiel said, and a lit flare descended Dean’s entire body, causing an emotional wildfire and a sudden fever.

“Awesome,” Dean whispered. He tensed when he realised he’d said that word already.

Castiel laughed affectionately though, which made Dean bite his lip and stare at his shoes in relief. Castiel sighed with a smile, then rang off with, “ _I’ll see you later, Dean._ ”

“See ya,” Dean hurried to say before the call ended. He slipped his cellphone into the pocket of his scrubs, then covered his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You got this, Dean. Come on. You got this.”

Then he let his hands sway to his sides, and he went to get back to work.

Ten o’clock came and went, and Dean figured Cas was running a bit behind schedule.

Seeing ten-thirty displayed on the waiting room clock made him anxious, but he didn’t have a moment to complain about it because he still had another patient to see. He and Meg were the only two working tonight; Dr. Cain had gone home early on account of something mysterious and shady which nobody else wanted to ask about.

The clinic eventually emptied of patients, and Dean was left waiting.

Ten-fifty-five was testing his sanity, just a little.

“Maybe he forgot he was meant to come,” Dean muttered to Meg, who busied herself disinfecting the front desk, armed with a bottle of purple spray and a paper towel. “Maybe his leg packed up while he was walking over here. He said he was walking with a cane, maybe it snapped.”

“What’s far more likely is that he’s pissed at you for storming out on him at the hospital,” Meg said tartly, spritzing a fresh towel with cleaner fluid and going to wipe the door handle to the staff room. “A week isn’t a long time for _that_ wound to heal.”

Dean fidgeted. “But if I’d left it any longer, he would’ve thought I didn’t want to see him. He told me, he – he said to me— What he got from my behaviour was that I’m _interested_ in him but don’t want a relationship. All of it was just crap he inferred from me trying to stay professional.”

“And?” Meg tossed the towel in the trash and the cleaner into a drawer, kicking it closed. “How professional are you feeling right now, Winchester?”

“Not very. Actually – not at all,” Dean sighed, slumping as he gazed at Meg. He felt a cool night-time draft from behind him, and turned around to see Castiel standing there, one hand on a walking stick, one holding a hemp-cloth bag. He was dressed in that trenchcoat of his, a faded blue Looney Tunes t-shirt underneath, and a tight black pair of sweatpants which did absolutely nothing to hide the natural bulge between his legs. Dean’s intake of breath was silent, but still incredibly obvious because his mouth was hanging open.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Castiel said. He’d paused so long that Dean could only conclude he’d heard the last few things Dean had said to Meg. Castiel swallowed. “My cat had her babies tonight, I couldn’t leave her to have them unassisted.”

“Oh!” Meg chirped. Dean’s head whipped around to see a look of sheer joy on her face. Her eyes darted to Dean, then back to Castiel. “Gotta let me take a peek at them sometime, hot stuff. Mama needs fresh kittens for her potions.”

Dean snorted and turned his attention to Castiel, easing himself towards him. “She’s kidding, man,” he said, when he registered Castiel’s unsettled expression. “Meg won’t admit outright how much she loves the good things in life. Or—” He walked to stand in front of Castiel, fingers reaching to straighten his lapel without looking. “Or how much she cares,” he finished, rather weakly.

Castiel blinked in a serene way, a small smirk lifting one side of his lips. “You two must be very suited to one another, then.”

Dean chuckled, head down, one fingertip popping through a buttonhole on Castiel’s coat. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re what you’d call frenemies.”

“I prefer the term ‘archnemesis...es’,” Meg corrected, making Dean chortle to himself.

Castiel was still smirking when he looked up. Neither of them moved for a moment.

Then Castiel said, “I was told I needed a checkup?”

“Yeahhh,” Dean said, distracted by the single curl of hair overhanging Cas’ forehead. He blinked twice, suddenly recalling the phone call he’d made. “OH—! Shit. Yeah, right this way.” He let go of Castiel’s coat and sped away, heat on his cheeks and his legs moving too quickly to allow Castiel to keep up. He paused at the doorway to the patients’ room and looked back. Castiel was limping heavily, half his weight on a shiny black stick with an angled hand-grip.

Feeling sorry, Dean went back and took hold of the other man’s elbow, one hand around his back.

“I don’t need help, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, once they cleared the front desk and entered the wide corridor to the patients’ room.

“But do you _want_ help?” Dean asked.

He led Castiel to the first gurney, eyes on him as they turned together to let Castiel sit. Castiel’s gaze lifted to Dean’s face, sadness and hope equally present in his expression. “Your assistance is much appreciated, I will say that much.”

Dean gave a genuine smile, poking his glasses to sit firmly on the bridge of his nose as he turned to pull the curtains closed. There was nobody around to see in, but the curtains gave the illusion of privacy, perhaps intimacy.

“First things first,” Dean said, voice and eyes kept low. He held out a hand, fingertips brushing Castiel’s cotton-warm knee before falling away. “I know last time I saw you I apologised, but then I fucked up again, and I need to apologise. Again.”

“For what?!”

“For running out on you. We talked about me bailing at the exact moment when you needed me most, and I went and did it again.”

“Dean, that was my fault,” Castiel said, putting his hemp bag down on the bed, then reaching – _leaning_ forward to put his warm hand around Dean’s wrist. “I insisted on saying the word ‘love’, stating intentions that you already made clear you weren’t interested in. I overstepped my bounds and for that I am sorry.”

Dean’s brain came up with eight different ways to say _I am interested in a romantic relationship with you, you dolt_ , but they all rushed through his mind so quickly he had already moved onto another thought before one could stick. He huffed a laugh, lifting a hand to dab at his upper lip. “‘Sorry’ again. What is this, the blame game?” he muttered. “C’mon, we can’t keep blaming ourselves for fucking up.”

“Would you rather I blamed you?” Castiel said, arching an eyebrow with impeccable sharpness.

Dean exhaled. “No. But I’m definitely to blame more than you are. You spoke your feelings, and I didn’t. Way I see it, only one of us was perverting the course of justice there.”

Castiel appeared apprehensive.

“Look, Cas,” Dean turned his hand to hold Castiel’s, not even trying to hide the pulse when his heart leapt into his throat, or the hitch in his breath, or the way his eyes hungrily searched for a similar reaction in Cas – and found it, too. Dean wet his dry lips with his tongue. “Maybe this is a mixed signal.” He bumped at their joined hands. “But I promise you, when I freaked out, I wasn’t trying to push you away. You had your moments, way back when, working through some problems. Then I had mine. Just happened that my issues affected you. And it sucks, man, it does. And I’m sorry.”

“Dean, what are you saying?” Castiel’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head. “You didn’t bring me here for a checkup, did you?”

Dean laughed, squeezing Cas’ hand. “I did. I’ll get to that. But there’s something I wanna ask first.”

Castiel’s eyes lowered, and he blinked three times before meeting Dean’s gaze above him. “Okay.”

“My mom’s having this party. She, uh, has it every year. Halloween.” Dean swayed his head bashfully. “It’s kind of a kid’s thing, but there’s booze and decorated cookies and cake, and I make half the food and half the decorations, and we dress up, and, like— It’s really cool, in a sort of, everyone-is-perpetually-twelve-years-old kind of way. Anyway. I wanted to, um, ask you...”

“If I would like to attend?” Castiel’s eyes brightened, a nice wrinkle under each of them as he pushed himself into Dean’s limited line of sight. Dean nodded timidly, biting his inner lip. Castiel smiled. “I will have to think about it, Dean; I am a man of God, and Halloween is—”

“Fuck. Fuck, sorry, I forgot you were— _Crap_.”

Castiel laughed, rocking their joined hands. He shook his head, looking up at Dean with unmistakable amusement. “I promise to consider attending. For your sake. You wouldn’t go to such lengths to ask me if you didn’t want me there.”

“‘Course I want you there,” Dean scoffed, easing his fingers out from between Castiel’s, then going to wash his hands. “Everyone from the clinic will be there, and all of Mom and Sam’s friends. We gave up on doing Christmas parties, it just gets complicated when everyone has their own places to be. At least when it’s Halloween, nobody’s really booked up.”

“I see,” Castiel said. His eyes turned sideways, falling to the bag he’d brought. “Dean, do you like honey?”

“Honey? Yeah, it’s okay.” Dean turned from the sink, drying his hands with a paper towel. “Can’t beat grape jelly though.”

“Oh, my favourite sandwich filling is peanut butter and grape jelly,” Castiel said appreciatively. His hands fished inside the bag, and he pulled out the Tupperware box that had contained cookies last week. “This is yours.”

“It’s my mom’s, actually,” Dean grinned. He didn’t take the box, waving the gloves he was about to put on – Castiel understood, and put the box back in the bag.

Castiel then pulled out something else: a glass jar approximately the size of a golf ball with a silver screw-top lid, its insides filled with gloop that resembled maple syrup. It had a paper label taped to one side, and when Dean crouched slightly to see it, he saw it read _Breckenridge Chapel Rose Honey_. There was a small doodle of a bee buzzing around the handwritten cursive, its dotted map trail swooping through the upper swashes of the letters.

“Is that— Wow,” Dean said, straightening up. “Is that for me?”

“I thought you might enjoy a taster,” Castiel said softly, putting it back alongside the empty box. “The thing to do is over-toast some bread on purpose, butter it while it’s hot, and this honey turns it into something otherworldly.”

“Awesome, thank you,” Dean said, glad his voice came out sounding as legitimately pleased as he really felt. “I’ll try that when I get home tonight. Midnight snack.”

“Ah,” Castiel said, raising his eyebrows, setting the bag aside. “It’s quite late, isn’t it? We ought to...” His words died on a whisper, and with his head bowed, he seemed to be looking at his own hand, fingers dipped into the elasticated band of his sweatpants.

“Regretting your wardrobe choice again?” Dean smirked.

“You’ll have to pull them down to see the stab wound,” Castiel murmured, not raising his head. “It’s not what I _am_ wearing that’s the issue, it’s...”

“What, you got ladies’ underwear under there or something? Tell you now, Cas, I’ve seen people come in here wearing things they wouldn’t be seen dead in, but medical emergencies sometimes demand speed over presentability. But there’s no shame. We don’t judge around here. I sure don’t. ‘Specially not if it’s women’s underwear – and hey, if it’s that, we might even have a little something in common.”

Castiel didn’t take the bait, and suddenly Dean wasn’t so sure he knew what the problem was. “Hey... Hey, you okay?”

Castiel looked up now, breath gusting over his parted lips. “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Dean’s cheeks flushed hot. “Not a problem. I’m here to look at your leg, nothing else. I’m a professional, I know what genitals looks like.”

“Well,” Castiel said brusquely, a teasing look in his eye. “I recall you saying you didn’t feel all that professional today.”

Dean shut his eyes. “If you want Meg to do this, that’s fine,” he said, and actually meant it. When he opened his eyes, Castiel was shaking his head.

“You can do it,” Castiel said. “Just – be kind.”

“Kind? C’mon, what sort of gross pervert do you think I am,” Dean said, shaking his head jokingly as he eased Castiel’s pants down. The cotton bunched on the gurney’s protective tissue, and Castiel slipped off to let Dean pull them further down. Their groins were very close together like this, but besides the feeling of general static under Dean’s skin, he was more enamoured with the heart palpitations and happy little tummy flips. This was actually better than being sexually attracted, he thought. This way he could pay attention to Cas’ emotions without distraction, without worrying he was being mindlessly led around by his—

“Oh,” Dean breathed. Castiel sat neatly on the gurney now, legs apart over his trenchcoat, his Road Runner t-shirt pulled down to cover his groin. Turned out, it wasn’t his dick he was worried about exposing.

Last time Dean had seen Cas with his pants off – yeah, he’d been bleeding, but he was wearing white shorts as underwear at the time, and the tops of his thighs had been covered. Now, the healing stab wound and nearby surgery scar with their numerous stitches were exposed halfway down his thigh, but so were the very top of his legs. And there, on the dusky skin of highest part of his inner thighs, Dean could see the scars of self-harm, as clear as the newest injury. The carving of a knife tip, slow and sharp.

They were old scars. From childhood, perhaps Castiel’s teenage years. Some... oh, no, some were newer. Less than a year old. Mere months, perhaps.

Dean said nothing, gulped, then touched the stab wound with his gloved fingers. Castiel flinched, but Dean was ever so gentle. He brushed the wound with his thumb, checked the stitches were even, there were no lumps below the skin, and no discolouration beyond the norm. For a week-old wound, it was healing well.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Castiel asked quietly.

“Looks healthy,” Dean said, ignoring what Castiel really meant. “I’ll refer you to a physical therapist, they should give you the rundown on what to do and what to avoid, maybe some exercises you can do to avoid scar tissue building up. Gotta keep the area limber. Use it or lose it, as they say. Rest could be equally helpful in your case, too. The hospital probably told you a lot already – I don’t know if you were lucid enough to remember if you were all hopped up on pain meds.”

“Dean,” Castiel said sternly, dark hair bobbing into Dean’s view as Castiel dropped his chin to his chest. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Dean said. “But I answered your question when I _didn’t_ talk about it.”

Castiel’s breath jolted, inhaling twice, exhaling too quickly. He shook his head, fingers reaching for Dean’s hand, taking it away from the scratchy stitches and pulling his gloves off for him. Dean let him hold his hand, and relaxed when Castiel spread out his fingers and caressed them with his own.

“Please say something,” Castiel whispered.

Dean had never been put in this position before. Make-or-break time. Either he was to say nothing and resume their odd, frankly confusing professional friendship, or he was to give Castiel the comfort and validation he clearly, _clearly_ needed right now. More mixed signals, in other words.

There was a third option. Dean took it.

His fingers warmed the line of Castiel’s stubbled jaw, thumb against his chin, palm below his ear. He turned Castiel’s shamed face upwards, having to bend at the knee to coax his eyes to rise. When their eyes met, Dean felt a surge of longing, not only for that long-elusive kiss, but for the vocal declaration he screwed up last time.

“You are beautiful,” Dean said, astounded to hear his voice crack under the pressure of emotion, gripping this throat and slowing his tongue. “Cas, you are—” Dean hung his head, sighing. “I’m saying this as a friend. As someone who cares how you feel, and wants to make you feel better. Not just now, but in the long run.” He met Castiel’s gaze again, managing to smile when he saw tears of _shock_ in Castiel’s eyes. “But I’m also saying it as someone who would maybe like to kiss you until you stop looking like you’re about to goddamn _cry_ —”

Castiel launched himself off the gurney and pushed up against Dean’s lips, mouth open, nose digging into Dean’s cheek. Dean made a noise of surprise, hands still on Castiel’s face, totally stunned, unable to decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

Dean’s eyes fell shut and he stood there being kissed, hearing Cas give a little hum of “ _Mnh._ ” Both of them turned their heads opposite ways at the same time, tongues tentatively resting on the other’s lip. Castiel’s strong hands gripped Dean’s hips, holding him anchored close.

Dean didn’t have a single thought in his head. It was a blissful moment of surrender.

Castiel broke the kiss first, falling back to balance himself against the gurney. He was dazed, eyes skipping about across Dean’s face, lips parted and plumpened. “Oh,” he whispered.

Dean was dimly aware that Cas’ sweatpants were hanging around his thighs still, but... wow, he had so little interest in what Cas’ dick was doing, he wanted his pretty mouth and a _hug_ —

They toppled into the gurney, Castiel giving a yelp of “Dean—!”

Dean nearly giggled, trying to hug all of Castiel at once. He buried his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder and laughed as Castiel grunted, now lying perpendicular to the gurney’s support with Dean half on top, half beside him, Castiel’s tousled head of hair tipped off the side. The hard angles of his throat were exposed, and Dean felt shimmery inside as he rested his hand over his larynx.

He felt a shivering breath enter Castiel, hold, then release. Castiel’s lips parted and he shut his eyes, then said, ever so quietly, “That was better than I thought it would be.”

“Kissing?”

Castiel turned his head, adjusting his body so he head was supported. His eyes roamed Dean’s face, then settled in delight upon Dean’s returning gaze. “Kissing you,” Castiel replied, in a voice so soft it sent bolts of exhilaration through Dean’s entire limbic system.

Dean’s breath floated from his mouth. “Can we do it again?” He perked up off the gurney, inching towards Castiel’s lips.

Castiel grunted in discomfort, frowning and sitting up. “Not in this position, we can’t.”

“Here, then,” Dean said eagerly, standing up and helping Castiel to his feet, holding his bare hips to do it. Wide, meaty hips, smooth skin. “We can lie on the gurney.”

“And—” Castiel looked down at the bed, then back to Dean with an incredulous expression. “And do what?”

One corner of Dean’s lip curled up in a shy, excited grin, and one shoulder followed suit. “Make out, maybe?”

Castiel’s eyes dipped to Dean’s mouth, and Dean shuddered internally, leaning closer in his desire to recreate that extraordinarily happy feeling. Satisfaction and joy, that was what it was.

Dean nosed at Castiel’s upper lip, lips parting... Castiel gave his lips a slow press, sighing into Dean’s mouth and shutting his eyes to turn his head, a hand sneaking below the shirt hem of Dean’s scrubs, holding his overheating skin. Dean moaned, eyes rolling back behind closed lids. His mouth fell from Castiel’s in a sloppy movement, and he was left panting, heart _pounding_. “You kiss good. Really – _shit_ – really fuckin’ good. Jesus _Christ_.”

Castiel chuckled smugly, eyelashes low; they cast shadows against his cheeks as he leaned in, resting the rim of his mouth against Dean’s.

Then he swallowed, letting Dean go so he could pull up his sweatpants and cover himself. Under any other circumstances that would be a worrying move immediately after Dean had upped his flirting game, but Castiel merely used the same movement in which to shed his coat, then sit back on the gurney, swinging his legs up and lying back, looking at Dean invitingly.

Dean beamed and hopped up too, rolling against Castiel and burying his cheek against the threadbare t-shirt that sat snugly against his skin. Dean shut his eyes and inhaled Cas’ scent, arms banding around his waist to hold him. “Mmmm,” Dean groaned as he breathed out, steaming up his glasses. “Your laundry detergent smells amazing.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s forehead, lingering and sticky. Words came as breath against his cheek, “I changed my shirt specially before leaving the house. I didn’t want you sneezing.”

“‘ppreciate it,” Dean murmured, rolling his hips so one thigh could slide up and rest over Castiel’s higher leg. They were almost facing each other, Castiel’s fingers cupping the back of Dean’s head now, catching and holding his gaze.

Dean sighed, at peace. He guided Castiel in for a closer embrace, chests together, sharing so much _warmth_.

“I’m... so glad,” Castiel said, shaking his head minutely and moving to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose. “ _So_ glad.”

Dean cooed in elation as Castiel began to kiss his lips again, kiss after kiss after kiss. They weren’t probing or exploratory kisses, nor were they sultry, but they were still seductive, and Dean was enthralled by Castiel’s taste. Not like honey, but like... icing sugar and tomatoes. Probably a mixture of things he’d eaten – but it didn’t taste at all bad. He’d probably taste different tomorrow.

Dean smiled into the fifteenth kiss, licking saliva from his lips and peeking out from under his eyelashes at the man hovering over him. They paused their affections for a moment, maintaining close eye contact and, at the same time, becoming more aware of the rest of their bodies.

Dean had his hands on Cas’ hips, warming his fingers below his shirt. Castiel had dug little spaces for his own fingers in Dean’s hair, cradling the base of his skull, pressed between his head and the pillow. But while their chests were pressed together with Castiel’s weight on Dean, Dean could also feel his hipbones; there were barely three layers of cotton between their skin now, and neither of them could mask – nor intended to mask – the bulk of their semi-erections against each other.

Damn. There was another dick pushing right up against Dean’s junk, but the fact it was half-hard wasn’t what made him feel stirred-up inside. Just, the _intimacy_ of it was... really exciting.

Dean blinked a couple of times, rocking his hips against Cas in a small, inelegant movement, just to test how it felt. “You... um— You don’t wanna...” he cleared his throat, “do you?”

Castiel smiled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t feel anything even if we did. That’s—” He released a soft exhale, apparently too sad to smile any more. “That’s part of the reason I would hurt myself when I was younger, I could—”

“Cas, no, you don’t need to—”

“I want to tell you, Dean. Please. _Please_.” Dean heard desperation in Castiel’s voice, his eyes wide and pleading. “I’ve never told anyone, it’s been weighing on my mind for nearly _all_ of my life. Any time I get close to telling anyone I get shut down, insulted – _beaten_. I can’t open up to anyone. I felt hunted and like a – a – a spy for the other side, growing up with the Church. I’ve never felt safe. I’ve never felt comfortable. Until—”

Castiel made a gritty sound and thumped his head against Dean’s collarbone, making Dean wince. But Dean reached up to stroke his head, and sighed with a smile. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“Until you,” Castiel finished, which was exactly what Dean knew he would hear. But hearing it still made his stomach flip and his fingers tingle and his emotions soar, and he didn’t think he’d ever felt so valued by someone who wasn’t the dearest of family members.

Castiel swallowed and prepared a breath to continue, fingers sliding to stroke then hold onto Dean’s hand. “I don’t feel anything when I touch. Just... nothing. A few years ago I asked my doctor and he prescribed drugs, but when I said I don’t feel desire, or attraction, he referred me to a psychologist. I’d been through that before, Dean. I’d been to a school where they patrol the classrooms and listen for rumours after lights-out to find out if there were any deviants among us. I have no idea – _no_ idea how they found out about me. Nor do I understand why they thought a lack of sexual attraction was a problem in an all-boys school. But I had a social stigma on my back for the rest of my school life, I’ve been told praying would help and I had _pretend_ it worked, I had to lie to a priest, Dean! To God!”

Dean hushed him, soothed him quickly before he got too riled up. His fingers were clenched in Dean’s scrubs, pulling at the empty pocket. Castiel swallowed hard, then again, holding Dean’s eye for comfort. When Dean went on hushing him, stroking fingers through his hair, Castiel relaxed his fingers and put on a small, possibly forced smile.

“It took me years until I realised I’m not sick. I’m just asexual. I fall in love, Dean,” he said lowly. “That’s all I can do. I thought you didn’t want me back.”

“I do,” Dean blurted without hesitation. “God, Cas, I do.” He moved their joined hands and kissed their knuckles together, eyes on Castiel’s face. “A- Actually... I—”

“Hey, flyboys,” called Meg from beyond the curtain. “It’s past eleven; it’d be _so_ incredibly great if you could wrap this up real quick. Food to be eaten, sleep to be had. Single lady stuff to be done.”

Dean rolled his eyes and sank his head back into the pillow. “Meg, you’ve got the keys,” he called back. “Lock this place up with us inside, we’ll leave when we’re ready.”

“Yeah, right,” Meg said. “If I do that I’ll come back tomorrow and find out you slept here.”

“That’s not against the rules, is it?” Dean asked, eyes drifting to Cas, who had nestled his cheek against Dean’s shoulder and was breathing calmly with his eyes shut, like he was ready for a nap.

“Against the rules, no. Against my better judgement, yes. Come _on_ , we can drop your unicorn off on the way. I want to see these kittens before I head home.”

Castiel opened his eyes, pupils adjusting to the light again as Dean watched. He parted his lips to mumble, “I think... I do need to check on Shilo.”

Dean screwed up his lips. He’d been _so close_ to getting a love confession out of himself. “Fine,” he sighed, both for Meg and Castiel’s benefit. “Give us two minutes.”

Dean heard the swish of Meg leaving the patients’ room and stalking off down the hallway in her Crocs. Dean turned his head to Castiel, fingertips lifting to graze one delicate, high cheekbone of his. “You okay showing Meg your cat babies?”

“Her? Yes. You, though... I worry you might break out in hives or something equally unpleasant.”

“Doesn’t get that bad. Mostly watery eyes and sneezing,” Dean said, clicking his lips against his teeth in annoyance. “You ready to get up?”

“Mm-hm,” Castiel said, pushing their fading erections together on purpose as he moved away.

Dean sat up, rolling his shoulders with his back to Castiel. He smirked at the blue curtain three feet in front of him. “Huh. Kissed a guy for the first time. That was kinda fun.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “Can I...”

“Can you what?” Dean inquired, getting up and turning to face Castiel, sliding a hand into his scrubs to adjust the placement of his now-obvious penis.

Castiel watched the movement with curious eyes, then looked down at himself. He touched his hand to his erection, put pressure on it, but then flattened his lips and sighed. “Do you find me sexually attractive?”

Dean met his eye from across the gurney, passing him his coat. “Would you count it as an insult if I said no? ‘Cause, I mean, I think you’re hot as hell, and man,” Dean chuckled, “I wanna kiss every freakin’ inch of you.” (Oh, Castiel blushed hard.) “But I don’t really know where the line is, what counts as sex for you?”

“W-Would you be interested in making me achieve orgasm?”

Dean’s breath stuttered, but after a second of analysis, it seemed to be a conditioned response to the words he’d heard. He didn’t really feel any more excited about what those words meant than anything else about Cas. Dean eventually reached his conclusion, and he shook his head. “Not unless it was something you wanted to try.”

Castiel thought about that, then nodded, head down as he put on his coat. It swept around him, and Dean smiled at the practised ease with which he donned it.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, waiting beside the gurney as Dean went to the already-unlocked drawer to get his bag. “Thank you for your patience.”

“You sound like a phone operator. Please hold. Thank you for your patience, your call _is_ important to us.”

Castiel snorted, sticking his hands into his pockets, his hemp bag dangling, cane hung on his forearm. “I mean it.”

“So do I,” Dean chuckled, putting on his leather jacket, slinging his messenger bag across his shoulder, then reaching out a hand for Castiel’s. He grinned when Castiel looped the hemp bag over his wrist and took hold of Dean’s fingers, and allowed Dean to lead him into the corridor. They went slow this time, at a decent pace for Castiel to limp.

All the lights were off in the waiting room now, so the only light was the silver moon, cutting bright angles down across the walls and the carpet, illuminating the edge of the front desk, where perched curvaceous figure of Meg Masters.

“Eugh,” Meg said, watching with her feet swinging. “You two look like a younger version of _House MD_ , where House is a homeless, aging frat boy and Wilson woke up gay. No, wait, scratch that – woke up biromantic heterosexual. And shortsighted.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. “That doesn’t sound too far off the real thing. I’d watch that show.”

Meg hummed in childish merriment, gratified by her own joke. She hopped off the desk and grabbed her things, then tossed the car keys in her hand as she led Dean and Cas to the exit. She held the door open for them, which was probably the nicest thing she’d do for Dean all month.

Castiel bundled himself into the back seat of Dean’s horrendously ugly Toyota, and Dean refused to respond to Castiel’s comment that it was “a nicely designed vehicle”. He was too far gone to fall out of love over Cas’ bad taste in cars. It would be something to argue about amicably in the future.

Dean sat himself in the driver’s seat, since – he explained aloud to Cas – he wouldn’t trust Meg to drive one of those plastic Cozy Coupes, not even in broad daylight. She was a week away from getting her full licence, but it was after dark and they had a disabled passenger, so Dean wasn’t risking anything.

They drove one minute down the road, then pulled up outside Castiel’s chapel. It looked kinda spooky at night, its white sides glowing with moonlight, its centre tall with a single spire, each of its four corners plunging to seven feet above the ground. The odd design gave it the appearance of a half-finished origami flower, but, admittedly, it did seem friendly – even with the steeple’s crucifix-shaped weathervane screeching creepily in the breeze.

Castiel led the way through the garden, and Dean held onto his elbow – less for giving support than to reassure himself that Cas was close. The faint smell of roses wafted about in the air, and though Dean breathed in as much as possible, he could only smell the perfumed scent on every other sniff. It was October, their blooms were long-faded.

He felt the oak tree stroke the top of his head, its thick arms sheltering him, and at the same time it seemed ready to trap anyone who wandered beneath. Dean exhaled as he cleared its reach, and looked back to check Meg was okay. She had a smile on her face, the dark waves of her hair flopping about her shoulders as she looked from side to side. She caught Dean’s eye and smiled harder. Dean felt a burst of relief and enjoyment, and he turned to watch where he was going, following where Castiel led him.

“Bees,” Castiel said, gesturing upwards at several tall, wind-rocked yellow trees with flapping leaves and a gentle sway to the highest parts of their trunks. Upon one prominent branch, there hung a lump, and Dean could only imagine hundreds of bees snoozing away inside. He gasped as Castiel directed him to the right unexpectedly, and when he looked down, he saw a second beehive on the left, this one white like the chapel but with a flat roof, the whole thing only half the size of the oven in Dean’s tiny apartment.

Ahead, previously hidden from view by elm leaves, a cottage reared out of the darkness. An orange light was on upstairs, illuminating a picturesque double-hung window with lace curtains either side, and a perfect cross in its centre.

A security light clicked on as the trio made it closer, pouring brightness onto the leaf-strewn path they walked. Another gold light lit up a porch with an arched wooden awning, black brick on the inner alcove. There was an ancient shoe caddy on the right, stacked with two pairs of wet-weather boots and a pile of soggy newspapers. Dean grinned when he stepped up into the porch and saw a horseshoe nailed over the doorway.

“Superstitious, are you?” Dean asked, nudging Castiel as he reached for the elegant iron door handle. 

“I live in a graveyard, Dean,” Castiel said, pushing open the door, which wasn’t locked. “I will do whatever it takes to keep the ghosts from haunting me.”

Meg’s slow, smirky voice was the first to reply, “Is that something that worries you? Ghosties?” She shot Dean a pointed look that was clearly meant to say _your boyfriend is crazy_ , but Dean was having none of it.

“He lives in a _graveyard_ ,” Dean repeated, eyeing Meg rather than the darkness in the entrance to the house. “You don’t need to believe in ghosts to be haunted by them.”

“Well put,” Castiel said. He’d gone ahead, and was now smacking the wall, presumably to find a light switch. “Very well put indeed. Oh – shoes off, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He slapped the light switch, and a thin buzzing sound filled the air, and then a light bristled into life above a wooden dining table. Dean winced, instantly put in mind of electrical fires and—

And—

“A- _tchoh_ kh!” Dean screwed up his nose, watching sneeze spray float down to the dark tiles under his shoes. “Ahh, fuck.”

“Apologies,” Castiel said, setting his cane down on the dining table, alongside about a hundred books, both vintage and brand new. “I don’t know if you want to come upstairs, the cats...”

“I’ll wait,” Dean said, with no small amount of resentfulness. He turned watering eyes on Meg, whose Crocs were already off. “Go enjoy your kittenfest, I’ll go raid the cupboards or something.”

Castiel smiled, giving a small, forgiving huff. “There’s honey in the cupboard above the toaster. I left your jar in the car, so feel free to try some of mine. The open one’s at the front.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, blinking hard and sniffing as he tossed his jacket over the books, toed off his sneakers, and hissed as he set his warm feet down on cold tiles. Walking on tiptoes, he turned left and wandered into the purplish shadows of the kitchen. He heard Meg chatter something excitable and follow Castiel away, and Dean sighed as they left him alone.

He found the kitchen light, displeased when its illumination was nothing but grey and miserable. He caught sight of his reflection on lead-latticed cupboard doors with glass fronts, and the light made his eyes look hollow. “Gross,” he said, and set about looking for new lightbulbs.

He sneezed six times, found a dead fly behind the single-slice toaster, twenty-year-old bleach under the kitchen sink (and a two-hundred year old set of pipes, at that), a religious recipe book (no, seriously), and a bottle of energy drink four months past its expiry date. With a sigh, he closed all the lower cupboards he’d opened, then started on the top ones.

He checked the honey cupboard first, and opened both its carved wooden doors to reveal— Oh.

Before him were fifty, maybe sixty jars of honey, most of them identical to the one Castiel had given Dean. Dean slumped down off his tiptoes, still holding the cupboard doors open.

“What’s this about, huh?” Dean asked, reaching for a jar near the back. The rear ones were bigger and heavier, and he recognised the shape from a brand of fruit spread he enjoyed as a kid. Dean turned the jar to see the label, and discovered a date on the back. “Nineteen-ninety- _two_?!” Dean frowned. “Dude, that’s too long to keep honey unless you’re in Ancient Egypt.” The year and month was scrawled on blemished paper, and the glue used to tack it on was unsticking with age. It was the same handwriting Dean had seen on his own honey jar, sans the little bee doodle and flamboyant swashes.

Shaking his head, Dean put the jar back where he found it. “Never took you for miserly, Cas. Lonely and depressed, sure, but...” He sighed and chewed on his lower lip, staring at the honey. The jars would make excellent gifts, and yet here they all were, accumulating.

Cas had said several times he admired Dean’s selflessness. Hey, nobody was perfect – maybe Cas was looking to change his ways. He’d given Dean a jar, after all.

Maybe honey was the one thing Cas didn’t like to give away to just anybody. Maybe he’d given so much over the course of his life that he couldn’t bear to bestow others with the very last thing he held dear.

Dean’s eyes filled with tears as he realised that theory had to be the truth. Cas had been giving and giving and giving, and with none of the positive touch he’d needed in return, he’d lost himself to emotional drought.

Dean gritted his teeth, shut the cupboard doors, and turned to leave the kitchen.

He forged his way through a living room with its single threadbare couch, then into darkness – tripping over the stairs, then climbing them – then to the landing at the top of the staircase, looking left, then right, hearing soft voices from one undetermined end of the hallway.

He eventually saw a light on the right, faint and moving. He walked towards it, soft footsteps on bare floorboards. The floor creaked, and he kept walking.

He got to the arched frame of a door and promptly sneezed at the sight of kittens.

“Dean!” Castiel cried, hauling himself to his feet with the help of the windowsill. He hobbled across his dimly-lit bedroom and tripped into Dean’s arms, embracing him in exactly the way Dean had come up here to embrace _him_ , except by accident.

“Heya, buddy,” Dean said, not letting Cas go when he tried to stand up straight. He hugged him tight, gazing across to the single, plush-pillowed bed, where Meg sat cross-legged, watching over the box of kittens on the floor. She had her phone out to take pictures, and when Dean noticed, Meg grinned mischievously and pointed the phone at Dean and Castiel.

“Smile, suckers,” she said, and Dean didn’t get a chance to stop her before he sneezed – and, of course, Meg’s phone made the camera noise at the same time. Castiel laughed, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and rocking him.

Meg chuckled and muttered something about Facebook before returning to photographing the cats.

Shilo meowed loudly, and Dean let go of Castiel for long enough that they could both look at the fat, pink-bellied cat. Castiel sighed. “She wants privacy.”

“You talk Cat?”

Castiel looked at Dean, his blue eyes even prettier than usual in the lovely warm light, shining from the lamp on his nightstand. “If I were in her position, I would want privacy.”

Dean managed a smile, looking down to see where his hand was linked with Castiel’s. “I, um, came up here to say I think you’re awesome,” he said.

“...Thank you,” Castiel said, narrowing his eyes. “I think you ought to go home, your eyes are bloodshot.”

Dean sniffed, winking one eye uncomfortably. “I’m okay.”

“Nope, that’s your ticking time bomb face,” Meg said, pocketing her phone and stepping around the mewling cat babies. “Got twenty minutes to get you home or you’re not getting up tomorrow morning.” She turned to Castiel and ignored Dean when he sneezed again. “He gets sick easily,” Meg explained to Castiel. “Keep him up all day, working with sick people, and by this time of night he’s ready to drop. Immune system crashes, and... Well. You can guess.”

“You’re welcome to sleep here,” Castiel said, limping after Dean and Meg as they travelled the hallway in the dark. “I have a couch—”

“I’ve seen that couch, it’s probably got fleas,” Dean said, taking the first step down the stairs, hand gripping the bannister. “No offence, but your house is kinda ramshackle.”

“My house is a centuries-old heirloom,” Castiel countered, thumping on the stairs behind Dean and Meg. “Yes, it has its problems, but – bless you, Dean—”

“Some other time, Cas,” Dean said, sniffing. “Honest, I’m not running away this time, Meg just has an excellent point for once.”

“What if—”

Dean paused at the bottom of the stairs. He turned to see that Castiel had overtaken Meg, and now hung out of the darkened stairwell with both hands on either narrow wall. Castiel licked his lips. “Perhaps it’s forward, but—” he eyes darted to Meg, who snuck under his arm and headed for the kitchen exit, “maybe I could have a room made up for you. Not tonight, but – I have a guest room, I could make it off-limits to the cats. And a bathroom too, and the passage between. I can clean it, change the bedsheets – quarantine that quarter of the house, indefinitely. And then you could...” Castiel shrugged, dislodging himself and plopping his socked feet down beside Dean’s. “You could stay over.”

Dean gazed at him, in awe of how shiny his eyes were. He looked so eager, and Dean really liked how eager he was. There was something reassuring about potentially having a place to crash that wasn’t the airbed at Meg’s place, or Sam’s couch, or Mom’s pull-out mattress.

“Yeah,” Dean said, finding himself wearing a lopsided smile. “Y-Yeah, okay.” He fingered Castiel’s palm, then tangled their fingers together.

Castiel smiled, and it was a grateful smile. He reached forward and put a tired kiss on Dean’s cheek, breathing out there until his lungs emptied. He pulled back – and Dean gave his hand one last squish then darted away before he could sneeze in Castiel’s face.

Meg handed Dean his jacket and shoes, and Dean sneezed again as he put them on, but couldn’t see enough to do his laces up, so he stumbled outside and chugged through the fallen leaves, breathing deeply and trying not to trip.

“Drive safe!” Castiel shouted after them.

Dean laughed into the silent darkness, then looked over his shoulder, seeing Castiel waiting on the porch, ten feet behind. “I can’t see shit, Meg’s gonna have to drive,” Dean called back. “If we die and come back to haunt you,” he jabbed a finger to indicate the house, “then at least you’ll have a proper excuse for those crappy flickering lights!”

Castiel’s laugh echoed in the night, knees bending. He made an attractive silhouette, with his thin cartoon t-shirt and slouchy pants. “Point taken!” he shouted, far enough away that Dean’s chuckle met nobody’s ears but his own.

Meg snorted from the path ahead, and Dean stuck his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, turning the right way and following her under the trees. “What?” he asked, always suspicious of her snorts.

Meg’s response was to sing, “Dean and Caa-as, sitting in a tree. Both of you got stung by one of Cupid’s bees!”

“Har-har, real funny.”

Meg didn’t stop there, oh no. “First you fall in loooove, then you share a bed-room, then you move iiiin, then you share an heir-loom—

“Shut up,” Dean complained. “It’s not going to go that fast, neither of us are ready—”

“Then you buy a caaar, then you go on a road-trip, then you buy a riiing, then you—”

“Whoa. Whoa! Okay! Stop right there,” Dean said, plowing ahead through the rose garden, intending to be the first through the chapel’s gate. “Don’t freak me out before I’m even started. I get you’re trying to be annoying and cutesy but I actually want this to work, Meg. If I start thinking about where the road’s headed then I’m going to – I don’t know.”

“Chicken out.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed, getting to the sidewalk and standing at the roadside with his hands curled in his pockets. “I’m...” He smiled shakily. “I really like him.”

“Well, that’s good. Because I invited him to your mom’s Halloween bash.”

Dean chuckled. “You know I already invited him, right?”

Meg’s smirk fell. “What?”

“I’m hoping he’ll show up in some really awesome costume, I— Oh, crap, I forgot to give him the address and the time and everything, shit—”

“No worries, four-eyes,” Meg sneered, eyebrows quirked as she popped open the driver’s side door and slunk into the seat. “I gotcha covered. Wrote it all down for him.”

Dean sighed, knowing she knew he was grateful. But he said it anyway. “I’d hate to jinx it, but I don’t know what I’d do without you, sometimes.”

“You’d find some other superhero to trail after,” she answered, thumping the door closed and starting the engine.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, running around the front of the car, hands slamming on the hood when Meg revved towards his knees. He glared at her, then climbed into the vacant passenger seat. “What’s that meant to imply, huh? That I’m the sidekick?”

“Oh-ho, man,” Meg laughed, far too sure of herself, “you are most _definitely_ the sidekick.” And with that, she stomped her foot on the ‘go’ pedal and set the tiny car roaring at great speed down the empty road.

 

 

“Dean, stop fussing!” Mary sniped, nudging Dean out of the doorway to the kitchen. “Go and check we have enough plates, I can do the cookies myself.”

“But the oven didn’t ping, they’re gonna burn—”

“Dean! Get out of my kitchen!”

Dean backed away when he was glared at by those scary eyes of hers. Mary was wearing black contact lenses that covered the entirety of her eyeballs, and while she’d complained she couldn’t see a great deal, she could see enough to know Dean was trying to govern the food production rather than assist.

“Go and do something quiet. You always get like this, every time we have a gathering! Leave me to my strengths and I’ll leave you to yours.”

“Hey, nurses can be totally ace at making cookies,” Dean said, folding his arms. His stiff dark shirt crumpled audibly as he did, and he looked down to check his costume hadn’t acquired any icing stains.

The snap fastenings of his cowboy shirt felt unusual against his shoulders compared to scrubs, and he’d gotten pudgier since last year, so his leather chaps didn’t fit his thighs quite right any more – not that he cared. His waistcoat was just long enough that the centre parting showed off his belt buckle: a horned bull detailed in silver, which was awesome, but his bolo tie had a little floral loveheart on it, so he hoped nobody would look too closely.

He loved this costume. Every year he considered branching out and being something _other_ than a cowboy, but every year he couldn’t bear to go without dressing up the way he wished he could dress every day – at least, not without looking like he just got off a horse riding in from nineteenth-century Texas. That _was_ the whole point, but he didn’t like being the centre of attention. Dress up as a cowboy to buy groceries or browse gardening equipment and people would stare.

“Dean!” Mary snapped, hauling a tray of gingerbread out of the oven. “Go and check the plates! It’s like you’re thirteen all over again! Why do I have to repeat every instruction more than once?!”

Dean sighed and slouched off, practising his cowboy swagger. Cocked hip, low swings of his weight. “Howdy,” Dean said to himself, entering the empty living room, then approaching the fold-out table stacked with plates and cutlery and five different kinds of decorated cake. “Want some punch, pardner?” Dean sneered at himself. “Punch. Wanna spill of punch— Wanna swig of—”

“Dean, what are you talking about,” Sam said, coming into the living room with two plastic jack-o’-lanterns in each hand. He was wearing a giant cardboard cutout of Pac-Man, tied by string around his neck; all of his clothes were bright yellow to match the character.

“Nothing,” Dean said. “Counting plates.” His mouth moved around numbers in silence, ignoring the sudden twist in his stomach from nerves.

He got to fifteen before Sam said, “Eighteen. Fifty-five. Six. Two-seven-three-five—”

“Sam!” Dean tossed a pumpkin-shaped candy at his brother, hitting Pac-Man in the eye.

Sam cackled, putting the jack-o’-lanterns down on the table. “Hey, you seen the batteries anywhere? Need them for these.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have real pumpkins,” Dean grouched, heading for the cupboard where he’d moved the batteries last time he tidied up. “Everyone’s gonna see what cheapskates we are as they come up to the house. Real pumpkins would be _way_ more authentic.”

“Every store in a fifty-mile radius was out,” Mary said, coming into the living room with a tray of cookies in her hands. “I gave up after wasting half a day calling different branches.”

Dean handed Sam the box of batteries then went to help his mother with the cookies, in case she couldn’t see the table through her black lenses. She smacked his hand as he reached for a cookie, and Dean harrumphed. “But they look good, I need to test them,” he said, eyeing the perfect little pumpkins and fall leaves, with their orange icing and neatly piped details. “When will the new batch be done?”

Mary sighed exhaustedly. “If you really must, Dean, you have my permission to ice them.”

“Yes!” Dean yelped, scurrying for the kitchen. He rubbed his hands together in excitement, deciding the best way to start.

Fifteen minutes later he heard the first _ding-dong_ of the doorbell. He poked his head out of the kitchen and looked across the living room, but it was just one of Sam’s friends from the county planning committee. They greeted each other warmly, and Sam offered the guy a cupcake, but Dean went back into the kitchen before he could be introduced.

The second _ding-dong_ was Mary’s dog-walker friend, the third was Mary’s bowling alley friend, the fourth was half her high school volleyball team (who had all aged surprisingly well). Each time, Dean huffed and returned to the kitchen, making another bowl of icing while another batch of cookies baked.

He didn’t need to make any more food, but it was quiet in the kitchen and he didn’t really know anybody out there. He made more gingerbread pumpkins, then some black cats and some Eyes-of-Sauron, then a set of zombies constructed from those generic people-shaped cookie cutters and the creative (but probably excessive) use of icing. Then he made a lot of cupcakes, because there had to be thirty people in the living room now, and not one of them had come to say hello.

Meg eventually arrived, but all she did was lean on the kitchen door frame and ask, “Is Cas here yet?”

And when Dean replied with a solemn shake of his head and a quick squat to check the cupcakes, Meg sighed and wandered away.

Kevin fell into the kitchen at one point, out of breath and laughing, snatched five of the cookies Dean had made, said “Hi,” then scampered off again.

Dean sat on the kitchen stool and stretched his legs out across the tiles, knocking his cowboy boots together. It was warm in here, stuffy from all the baking. He eyed the open door, seeing people mingling beside the snack table, hearing plates clanking and punch being poured, and the everlasting murmur of voices. Michael Jackson’s _Thriller_ played in the background, but nobody was dancing.

Soon there came the shriek of excited children as someone’s kids infiltrated the forest of adult legs, rushing about in butterfly and devil costumes. Dean sighed.

Mary came into the kitchen holding a red paper cup, sipping it before handing it to Dean. “Don’t feel like socialising?”

Dean shook his head.

“Tracy’s here with her sister, she asked where you were.”

“Hm,” Dean said, tipping back a gulp of too-fizzy cola. He winced as it fizzed all the way down his throat, then he handed the cup back to his mom.

Mary leaned back against the oven, her checkered yellow dress flapped around by hot air from the oven. She eyed Dean thoughtfully, sipping at her cola and swallowing. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Dean smiled tautly, hands between his thighs, head down. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Who is she?”

Dean shut his eyes. “Um. Ah... Actually, sh- he’s a guy.”

“Someone from work? Dr. Cain is here too, by the way. He found your cowboy hat in the bathroom, I told him you’d been taking selfies and probably left it there.”

“Mom!” Dean looked up at her, then scoffed when he saw she was joking. He cracked a smile, looking down again. He shrugged. “He’s a – friend. Cas, his name’s Cas. He’s a patient, actually.”

“Cas,” Mary repeated. She said the name slowly, like it was heavy on her tongue. “Is he handsome?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean said, shrugging again. His thumbs bumped together, fiddling at loose skin around a nail. “He’s pretty religious. He works at that tiny church down the road from the clinic.”

“Oh—! Oh, that’s nice,” Mary said, with strange haste. Dean looked up, baffled to see her guzzling another few sips of her drink, eyes wide as she looked up. It was hard to tell where her pupils were turned, as her eyes were shielded, but she seemed to be interested in the ceiling.

Unsure what else to say, Dean said, “You look nice. Your hair looks pretty done up like that.”

“No, I couldn’t get it to sit right, my hairclip broke—”

“Mom, I mean it. Stop criticising yourself, just accept that you look nice.”

Mary raised her eyebrows; she probably hadn’t realised she’d rebuked the compliment. “Thank you, Dean,” she said, smiling warmly as she put her drink down, then swayed over to Dean and cupped his jaw with her warm hand. He only came up to her waist because he was sitting on the stool, but he gazed up at her and smiled. Her blonde curls fell about her shoulders, pinned up at the back of her head. Yeah, she was beautiful.

Mary patted Dean’s cheek, then glided away, taking a tray of cookies and her empty cup with her. “I’ll let you know when your friend arrives.”

“Thank you,” Dean called, smiling after her. Boy, he was so lucky to have her as a mom.

He finished up with the cakes and cookies he was working on, and scraped out the gloop that was left in the mixing bowl. He knew the dangers of eating raw mixture, but he couldn’t resist. He happily licked the spoon clean, then fingered out the last sweeps around the bowl’s edge. He washed his hands and left all his utensils soaking in the sink, ready to wash later.

Most of the sweet treats were arranged neatly on the only flat thing he had left: the tray he’d baked them on. There were still twenty-odd cookies and a similar number of cupcakes left without a home, so he gave in and allowed them to share space on the tray. It was stacked dangerously tall now, and when he left the kitchen carrying it, he had to announce his presence.

“Baked goods, coming through. Move your feet. Hey! Trying to get to the table, here...”

He made it, slid the tray in beside the bowl of punch, and grinned when his creations were snatched up right away. Pats rained on his back and he absorbed the general hubbub in the area, comments ranging from “very well-made” to “looks delicious”.

He took a cupcake and wandered between people in the room, a Cheshire-cat grin on his face as he bit into a swirl of black icing, scattered with orange sugar stars. He sighed, enjoying the perfectly moist base of the cake as it crumbled behind his teeth.

He nodded to Mark Cain, then wiped his hands on his chaps and shook the hand of some guy Sam wanted to introduce. He hugged Tracy, then gave Victor a hug too once he found him, closer to the door.

“You’re gettin’ better at this,” Victor said, toasting Dean with a cupcake. “Don’t mean just the home bakery, either, I mean the whole spook-tacular craziness you got going. I went for the punch and hand popped up outta the drink. Lost my fucking _shit_.”

“Water-filled medical gloves in the freezer, my friend,” Dean said, slapping Victor’s shoulder. “And thanks. Means a lot.”

“Your kids are gonna love this side of you,” Victor said, taking out his vampire fangs to eat his cupcake. With his mouth full, he added, “When you get kids, that is. Look, don’t hang about, man. You wanna have the chance to run around with them before you start yellin’ at them to get off ya goddamn lawn.”

Dean’s smile came easily, because it was Victor saying what he said. If it had been anyone less close, he wouldn’t be so civil. “Don’t be so sure I will have kids, man,” Dean said, leaning back against the TV cabinet, watching the neighbour’s eight-year-old son terrorise Tracy’s little sister with a plastic spider. “For one thing, I got no time for breeding. Nursing’s the kind of job you gotta put your all into.”

“So’s any job you want to keep,” Victor argued. “But— Listen, man, I told you about my cousin, right?”

Dean slumped on his feet, growling out a sigh. “Not _again_ , Vick. Your blind dates are so shitty I’m starting to wonder if your only criteria is ‘wants kids’.”

Victor looked shifty-eyed, swiping crumbs out of his goatee as he put his fake teeth back in.

Dean rolled his eyes. “There are two things that I know for certain. One – Bert and Ernie are gay. Two – right now is definitely not the time for me to have kids. And for the record... I don’t think I’m putting myself back into the dating pool any time soon.” It felt relieving to say it. Not just because he usually didn’t like Victor’s idea of a good match, but also because of – well, _Cas_.

Victor had questions, and tried to call after Dean, but Dean swaggered off, waving at his friend as he left the living room and entered the quiet of the hallway. He heard the distant chatter of some people in another room on the left, and when he looked to the right, he could see the fake pumpkin lanterns through the floor-length window at the front of the house. A car was pulling up outside, headlights illuminating the lawn as the driver tried to sneak between a few other cars that had parked on the grass.

Dean went on down the hallway, pushing his mom’s bedroom door open – only to see Meg sitting at the foot of the bed, looking up from a conversation with another woman. “Keep walking, buckaroo,” Meg said to Dean. “Nothing to see here.”

Dean huffed and let the door rest closed, carrying on towards the bathroom. He knocked on the door, and when nobody answered, he went inside to get his hat. “There you are,” he said to it, finding it perched on the corner of the towel rail. He turned to the mirror and grinned at his reflection, and with practiced finesse, he swept his Stetson up onto his head and winked at himself.

He leaned closer to the mirror to check his teeth and contact lenses, then stood back, turning this way and that to check his tummy fat wasn’t overhanging his belt. Just in case he ate too much later, he undid his belt by a notch. Satisfied by the extra room, he patted his stomach and smiled.

The doorbell went _ding-dong_ again, a noise Dean had heard so often over the last few hours he’d gotten used to ignoring it. But he was halfway back to the living room when it went _ding-ding_ again.

There was a shadowy figure on the doorstep, unrecognisable because of their costume. They pressed the doorbell again, and Dean realised he was the only person who could hear their summons: someone had turned the music up in the living room, and Meg didn’t care if the sky was hurling out hailstones in the middle of a war zone outside, she didn’t answer other people’s doorbells.

Dean went towards the door, reaching out a hand to open it. _Please be Cas, please be Cas, please be_ —

“Cas!”

Castiel looked up from under the rim of his Stetson, wide-eyed. “Dean,” he breathed. Dean laughed and grabbed him, swaying against his shoulders as they toppled back a step back from the glow-in-the-dark welcome mat.

Castiel hummed, smiling widely when Dean fell off him and gazed into his eyes from inches away.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Dean said, pecking Castiel’s lips in greeting. “And you came as a freakin’ _cowboy_. Snap!”

“Yes. I had to get Agatha to drive me, my physiotherapist says I’m not allowed to ride my bike,” Castiel explained. “Agatha doesn’t drive very fast.”

A woman who could only be Agatha pottered up from behind Castiel, wearing a huge smile and a floppy witch’s hat. She was wrinkled and hook-nosed, and it took Dean a second to realise that was her actual face, not a costume. He beamed and thumbed over his shoulder, inviting her inside. “There’s cupcakes, help yourself,” he said, watching her hobble past on a cane not too different to the one Castiel was using.

Castiel sighed, condensation puffing from his mouth in the cold air. There was a happy look in his eyes as his gaze roamed the front of Mary’s house, taking in the repurposed Christmas lights – Santa with a noose around his neck, reindeers with too many orifices. Dean looked up too, hand sliding to grasp Castiel’s. “Had fun with those,” he said.

“I can see that,” Castiel said, narrowing his eyes at the window that had years ago offered a view from Dean’s bedroom: the fairy lights were arranged to look like the window was puking. Dean chuckled.

“Come inside?” he asked, tugging on Castiel’s hand.

Castiel followed, a hand up to push back his hat.

Mary appeared in the hallway, looking into the living room, then to Castiel. “Oh, I wondered if I’d heard— Gosh, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s not a problem, Mary,” Castiel said gently, reaching out to take her hand with both of his. Dean watched them touch as he closed the door, and he frowned in confusion.

“Wait... Do you guys know each other?”

Castiel looked back over his shoulder. “Of course. Mary attends my Thursday-evening sermons. To be perfectly honest, though, Mary, when you told me you had sons, I’d expected young children. I didn’t realise you were... well...”

“Of retiring age? Yeah, that’s me. Nearing my mid-sixties now.”

“I’d never have believed it.”

“Um,” Dean said, hands limp at his sides. “Mom... Did— Did you tell Cas to come as a cowboy?”

Mary laughed, a hand to her chest. “Oh, no. Not at all. You synchronised all by yourselves.”

Dean cast a sheepish look in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel smirked, looking back at Dean while still holding Mary’s hands. “Dean told me my coat made me look like a cowboy. Given the short notice I had before this party, I extrapolated, then put together what I had.” He flicked his eyes up to the hat. “And it turns out the internet has a lot more to offer than pornography and chatrooms.”

Mary retrieved her hands and pointed one finger at Dean. “You could’ve told me you wanted to invite Father Breckenridge, I would have asked him a fortnight ago!”

“What! I didn’t—” Dean floundered. “I wasn’t—”

Castiel laughed and stepped closer to Dean, touching his bicep. “It’s okay,” he looked back at Mary, “I don’t think he realised how much he liked me until very recently.”

Dean blushed furiously, averting his eyes from Mary’s scrutiny. His heart quickened, absolutely sure she would infer things from Castiel’s words that Dean definitely wasn’t ready for her to infer.

Mary cleared her throat, T-strap shoes shifting on the carpet. “I have some spooky pizza to go and order, so... I’ll leave you two to your mingling. Father— May I call you Castiel?”

“Of course, Mary.”

“If there’s anything you need, come tell me. What kind of pizza would you like?”

“Extra cheese,” Castiel said. Dean felt his eyes on him a moment later. “Dean,” he said, voice soft. “What about you?”

“Meat,” Dean said, but he looked up and Mary was already gone. He shrugged. “She knows. She’s been ordering the same thing for me since I was, like, three.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” Castiel said, planting himself against Dean’s front, hips together, arms around his waist. “I wish I’d had a mother like her.”

“I wish you had too,” Dean said with a frown. He eased Castiel into a kiss, sighing into the contact. Fingers spread over Castiel’s heart, touching the sagging blue cloth of his wildrag. Castiel parted his lips further, fingers inching to the back of Dean’s neck, then grooming through his hair. Dean lost himself to it, totally relaxed.

Dean licked his lips, breaking the kiss. “You soothe me,” he said, quirking a tiny grin. He looked up and met Castiel’s eyes, probably matching that adoring look with one of his own. “Seriously. You make me feel better about everything.”

Castiel’s smile was subtle, but still radiant. Dean kissed it.

After another half-minute of these intriguing new intimacies, Dean smirked and pulled away with a deep breath. “We’d better go through. There’s a bunch of people here who’ll _love_ you, by the way. And—” he paused for a moment, then said, “if anyone asks why you and I are dressed like the leads of _Brokeback Mountain_ , tell them it was by accident.”

Castiel frowned, hearing the exact wobble in Dean’s voice that made Dean frown too.

Dean pressed his lips together, then explained, “I’m not exactly ‘out’ to these folks. It’s not some big secret, but I haven’t told them you and I are... whatever we are. I haven’t figured out how to tell them, and I’m not sure I want – or need to. My mom, especially. And Sam.”

“They think you’re straight.”

“I am straight,” Dean said. “God, I know I’m sound like I’m paddling five miles up the Nile, but I’m not kidding; no matter how romantic I get with a guy, I _can_ still be totally heterosexual, oka—”

He was silenced by a kiss, which instantly made him relax, sighing until his hands unclenched from Castiel’s coat and his belt felt a little snug.

As Castiel pulled away, he cradled Dean’s jaw with his hand, then stepped back. “Perhaps we can mingle separately. Pretend we don’t know each other.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Dean said, enjoying the warm hands Castiel had curled around his wrists.

“I’d like a chance to, regardless,” Castiel said. “I feel like if you were by my side all night, I wouldn’t pay attention to anything else.”

Dean bit his lip and laughed, letting Castiel move away. “See you around, then.”

“I might go and try one of those cupcakes you mentioned...”

Dean stepped up to the doorway and watched Castiel wander forth into the milling crowd, nodding greetings, shaking hands or touching the shoulders of those people he already knew. Dean was aware he had a ridiculous smile on his face, but he would be damned before he wiped it away.

Dean went and talked to people, trying to be the social butterfly that Sam already was. Sam always said Dean was kind of antisocial, but he wasn’t really. Only when he didn’t like the people. He liked _these_ people. And Cas was here now, so Dean gave himself permission to have fun.

He promptly lost a game of candy bowling against Ben, that little spider-wielding terror of a kid. Ben and his mother Lisa lived next door to Mary, and Dean had seen enough of Ben in the past few years that he was practically his uncle by now. The thing was, Sam’s work friend Amelia had brought along a dog tonight, and the dog ate the candy Dean had bowled. According to Ben, that meant he lost.

“You’re like a mini scam-artist, aren’t you,” Dean said, scuffing Ben’s hair and laughing when the kid ducked away, snatching all that was left of Dean’s candy. “You could at least cheat right. Remind me to give you some lessons someday.”

“What sort of lessons?” Ben asked, popping candy corn in his mouth.

“We can go from Sleight-of-Hand 101 through to Expert’s Guide to Hustling Pool.”

“Right now?”

“No, not right now, are you kidding me? _Thriller_ ’s playing again!” Dean rushed off to clear a space in the middle of the living room, and he synched his body with the beat, light on his feet and hands formed into claws.

_—’Cause this is thriller, thriller night_  
 _And no one’s gonna save you from the beast about to strike—_

Dean laughed, seeing a couple of other people join him in the classic dance. Marching up and down their little dance floor, he heard laughter and babbling talk all around. The song kept him pumped, kept him jumping and wild. He even caught sight of Cas through the watching group, and winked right at him. Enlivened, Dean went on dancing, even after his fellow dancers gave up and went to flop into the couch beside Sam, and Dean was the only one left dancing and singing until the end.

Evil laughter boomed out of the speakers, and Dean roared in exhaustion, hand on his chest as he bent forward. Out of breath, his heartbeat throbbed all over his body at once. He groaned, resting his weight with his hands on his knees.

His hat slid off his head, letting cold air rush against his overheating scalp. He startled as he saw a hand slip between his legs and retrieve his hat, and when he straightened to see who it was, his heart beat too hard again. “Hey – Cas,” he huffed. “How’s it – _hah_ – hangin’?”

Castiel flipped the hat to sit on Dean’s head again. “It seems you are a terrible influence on the youth of today.”

“Buh...? It’s a – dance, what—?” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you mean the – _hff_ – offer of – organised criminal activity. I – _guh_ – f— firmly believe that if you’re going to rehabilitate, start with education. Weekend carjacking lifestyle didn’t pan out, became a nurse. Skill set’s pretty similar. Used my powers for good. Ben’s gotta start somewhere.”

Castiel looked amused. “I don’t even know where to start picking that apart.”

A clatter of human voices interrupted Dean’s breathless reply, and he and Castiel turned as one to find the source: Pac-Man Sam was being puppy-piled on top of the couch by five other people, each of them wearing a cardboard cutout of the Pac-Man ghosts: Blinky in red, Pinky in pink, Inky in cyan and Clyde in orange – and the fifth was dressed as the nameless wounded version of the ghosts, in dark blue with a wavy line as a mouth. The ghost-bearers grinned and laughed, making that well-known “ _wakka-wakka-wakka_ ” noise, grabbing each other as they kicked and nudged.

Dean folded his arms and watched with a huge grin on his face. He was familiar with this kind of attack; he was often its instigator growing up. Every one of Sam’s friends were trying to be the first to make him squeal, but when he did, nobody really knew who won. They all fell back, ruffled up, their colourful figures bruised and folded along the grain of the cardboard. Dean recognised Amelia, the red-haired owner of that candy-eating dog, and Jessica, once Sam’s college sweetheart. The other three ghosts were men Dean didn’t know.

Dean was busy formulating something funny to say, when he was beaten to the punchline by Ben, who stood nearby, sipping on a cola through a straw. “Dude,” he said, in his eight-year-old voice, “that’s really gay.”

The room seemed to go quiet, and everyone kind of flinched a little bit. That was what happened in Dean’s reality, at least. Someone had to talk to Ben about his language, Dean thought, and it was probably going to be him. _Gay is not an insult, kid,_ Dean said in his head, but then a second inner voice interrupted with, _But Ben actually meant ‘that’s really gay’ because there were costumed men crawling all over my brother._

Only two seconds had passed before that perceived awkward silence was broken – by none other than Mary, who laughed from beside the cupcake tower. “Guess I’ve been blessed with _two_ gay sons, then.”

Nothing had gone quiet, Dean realised. People just laughed and moved on, they hadn’t blanked out inside like he had. Sam was already in conversation with one of his friends, Mary was ladling out punch for Agatha. Dean’s heartbeat pounded in his throat again, this time not because of the dancing. Was this room suddenly very small or was that just him?

...Just him.

He sidestepped person after person, hearing a deep voice call his name, but he kept pushing and dodging bodies until he was at the edge of the room, hands on the door to the backyard balcony. He should’ve gone the other way, he should’ve gone to the front of the house—

Cold air rushed against his cheeks, and he waded into it, breathing out a cloud. He shut the doors carefully behind him, convinced that nobody realised he’d stormed out, ran away, panicked. Nobody thought he was the butt of the joke except him.

He resented his mother for a few seconds; how dare she joke about that! But then he frowned, rested his elbows on the balcony barrier. He overlooked the moonlit garden, where trees bordered the grass. The grass was growing too slowly to mow, so it seemed unruly, a bit like Dean’s own hair as he ran his hands back through it, Stetson gripped between his fingers.

Dean heard the clack of the door opening again, and he looked back to see Castiel stepping out from the golden rectangle of light, a wash of warm air and the sound of the _Ghostbusters_ theme song coming with him. Castiel closed the door, and it got cold and quiet again. He crossed the small balcony with a limp, then leaned on the barrier beside Dean, warm biceps pressed together.

Dean swallowed hard.

Castiel looked at him closely, head turned towards him. Then his fingers skittered along the barrier to touch Dean’s hand, and Dean took it without question. He held on, reassured by the touch.

“You didn’t realise she knew,” Castiel said.

Dean scoffed bitterly. “Yeah. But I also didn’t realise she thought I was full-out gay.”

“Maybe she doesn’t realise that bisexuality exists,” Castiel said gently. “You can’t hold that against her, not a lot of people understand it’s a possibility until it’s been explained. I certainly didn’t.”

“But I’m not bisexual,” Dean said. “I know it’s a fine line and all, but it’s a huge difference in my mind, you know? I’m – what’s the word, aesthetically attracted? Not just to you, but to other men. But it’s not _sexual_. For you, that would be the difference between being asexual and not-asexual.”

“Allosexual,” Castiel said. “That’s the word for sexual people.”

Dean sighed, head slumping. “But it’s a big difference, right? You wanting to hug and kiss me is different from you wanting to bang me. I’m not bi _sexual_. I’m biromantic. Or even...” His breath hitched, and he felt his face grow hot. “Maybe even just homoromantic. ‘Cause I’ve never felt like this about a girl... and...” His sentence petered out, and he looked up to meet Castiel’s eyes. His lips trembled, and he stood to push himself into a hug. He let Castiel squeeze him this time, needing his comfort.

Dean gazed at the light from inside though watering eyes, feeling his contact lenses tickled by the extra wash. He let his hat fall to the wood of the balcony, and took Castiel’s hat off him too, guiding that to fall squarely on top of his own.

Castiel pulled out of the hug to look at Dean, eyes never staying locked to one pupil for more than a few seconds. “You’re not comfortable with your family being misinformed, I can see that much. Would you like to go and educate them, Dean?” he asked. “They’re accepting people, nobody even batted an eye at what Mary said.”

“That’s ‘cause they thought she was kidding,” Dean mumbled. “Nobody actually thinks Sam’s gay. Don’t know what he _is_ , it’s none of my business. But I got no clue how many people in there think _I’m_ gay. I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, I think me inviting you here was the last bit of evidence my mom needed before she believed it.”

Castiel smiled. “If you told them now, it would be under your own control. You can be as specific as you like. And I’d—” Castiel took a breath, looking down between their bodies, “I’d like to support you. The same way I want you to support me when _I_ need it.”

Dean swallowed and tangled his fingers into the belt on Castiel’s trenchcoat, nodding. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, Cas, I wanna do that. Support you. _Not_ run off and leave you. I suck at doing that but I wanna make an effort to change.” He held Castiel’s eye, offering a smile. “Promise.”

Castiel huffed a grin, leaning in to put a single kiss on Dean’s lips. It was still a new kind of touch, bristly skin and a hard press, along with the weight of a whole new relationship, but Dean could see himself getting familiar with it very quickly, comfortable in the best possible way.

Dean took a deep breath, then let it rush in a cloud past Castiel’s shoulder. “Okay. So now what, I go in there and tell everyone I’m... i-in love...”

The sentence was meant to be delivered off-handedly and with a quick-fire sentence to follow it up, but it all got lost when Dean actually said it out loud. Holy shit, he actually _said it out loud_.

Castiel’s enchanting smile was all he could see. “You could tell them that, yes. Or we could tell them together – as... boyfriends?” Dean’s eyes shot up, and he saw Castiel’s unsure half-squint.

Dean nodded. “Partners.”

Castiel nodded and kissed Dean’s nose, making Dean all tingly. “Let’s go in?”

Dean handed Castiel his hat back, and when both hats were on their heads, Dean led his partner – boyfriend – _Cas_ through the door, and Castiel closed it behind them once they were back inside. Most people were sitting down now, on the couch or on the floor, perched on the coffee table. Meg was by the TV, chatting to Tracy and swilling the liquid in her paper cup around.

Dean’s tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He spotted Mary next to Sam, adjusting the string holding up his Pac-Man, and there was Victor, catching sight of Dean and waving from where he stood, in conversation with Mark.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, pulling on his hand. “Do you want to tell people individually, or just announce it?”

Dean nodded at the second option, wanting this to be over as soon as possible. Why was he even doing this? It wasn’t like it would affect anything if he explained himself, and why did anyone need to know anyway? What was the point? Why would he—

“If we could have your attention please?” Castiel called, in the big voice he probably used to summon saints or call angels to order. The room fell silent of muttering, and Castiel smiled. “I’m sure you all know Dean Winchester.”

A general affirmative went around the room in an enthusiastic rumble; it was clear to Dean these people knew and loved him, even if he didn’t talk to them a whole lot. Oh, crap, Cas was looking at him, looking right at him with those beautiful blue eyes, and he was dressed as a cowboy and they’d _synchronised_ and he was in love with Dean and were people meant to feel like this? Hot and panicky and flustered—

“Dean has something special he’d like to tell you about, so if you’d all care to open your hearts and your minds, and listen to what he has to say...”

He was still _looking_ at Dean.

—Wait, was that Dean’s cue? Was he meant to talk now?

Dean took a quick look around and saw everyone was staring at him. _Everyone_.

“Aaauhhh,” he said, then realised that wasn’t a word. “Shit.”

People laughed, and Dean quirked an embarrassed grin in response. “Uh. Um. Cas. This is Cas. He’s— He’s kind of my, um. My patient at the after-hours clinic. But, sort of, more than that, he’s my friend.” Dean looked down and realised he was holding Cas’ hand.

Everyone had seen already, was there even any point in explaining? Everyone could assume what they liked about their matching costumes, and about what their friendship entailed, because fuck this, if Cas could be his one-and-only from now until forever, it didn’t matter what his label was – he just wanted people to know how much he loved this man of God right here.

So he smooched Cas right on the mouth, knocking both their hats off and making Castiel gasp in surprise.

A wave of laughter and cheers and whoops and catcalls went up from those gathered in the room, and Dean heard Sam shout “I knew it!” which only got people laughing again.

Dean snapped out of the kiss with a thrilled smile on his face, and was gratified to see Castiel looking satisfied. Bewildered and stunned and messy-haired, sure, but satisfied.

Dean lifted their joined hands and waggled them about, grinning when he saw Mary with her fingers over her mouth, covering a smile of jubilation. Dean waved at her, then giggled, folding against Castiel’s chest and hiding his face from everyone else. Castiel hummed a laugh, kissing Dean’s cheek and caressing the back of his head with a hand.

“No words?” Castiel asked in a low voice. “Nothing to tell them?”

Dean shook his head. “Wanted to show them.”

“All right,” Castiel smiled, cheek pressing to Dean’s temple as the room returned to the mumbling of earlier. Everyone got back to their conversations, some were probably talking about Dean and Cas now.

Their relationship would likely cause sparks in Castiel’s circle of people, but here, in Dean’s circle of people, they were safe, and they could have their love.

After nearly all of the guests had gone home, Dean stayed long enough to help pack up the folding table and put the leftover food into containers for Cas and Meg and himself to take home. Agatha had driven herself home once it got too late; she had maintained an early bedtime for two decades and she didn’t intend to break the pattern tonight. So now the plan was for Dean to drive, dropping Cas at his cottage, then Meg at her place, then head off to his own apartment. Sam had his own car, but he would stay at Mary’s place overnight to help take the decorations down tomorrow.

They weren’t going anywhere yet, Mary said; the house was on lockdown until it was in a livable state. There was trash all over the living room, paper plates and cups, spilled drinks already soaking into kitchen towels. Orange and purple streamers littered the carpet, having come seemingly from nowhere. There was even some glitter sparkling from a few surfaces. Dean decided not to question it.

He worked on tidying the living room with Cas, Meg and Sam, but when he noticed the clock read midnight, he made his way to the kitchen, knowing that was where Mary would focus the last of her energy.

Sure enough, she stood with tired shoulders over the sink, her shoes off and her contact lenses long-gone. Dean shooed her away. “Stop cleaning that, that’s my mess,” he said, snatching the scrubbing brush. “Go and put your feet up, or whatever it is old people do when they’ve worked all day to make other people happy.”

Mary sighed, chuckling as she pressed her cheek against Dean’s shoulder, eyes probably closed. “You make it sound like it didn’t make _me_ happy. Dean, if I didn’t enjoy these things I wouldn’t do them every year. I wouldn’t put little bits of silicone in my eyes, either.”

Dean hummed, rinsing out one bowl, setting it to drip on the drying rack, then starting on the next. “Hey, Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, honey,” Mary said, wrapping her arms around Dean’s waist. Dean squirmed until she stepped back – he’d eaten too many cakes and it felt weird to touch. “What’s the question?”

Dean sighed through his nose, glancing over his shoulder at Mary, who leaned against the oven to rest. “Do you actually think I’m gay?”

Mary gave a small start. “What?”

“It’s just, you said ‘gay’ earlier, and then I kissed Cas...”

Mary reached across the small kitchen with her leg and bumped her bare toes against Dean’s leather chaps. “I don’t really know _what_ you are, but I definitely don’t think you’re the man your father wanted you to be.”

Dean laughed, grinning down at the soap bubbles on his hands. “Nah, guess not. Unless you have any objections, I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment,” Mary said, the smile evident in her voice. “You know I don’t mind, don’t you? I love you no matter what—”

“Mom, come on. I know.”

“Okay. Just being sure.”

Dean shook his head, still grinning. He heard Castiel and Meg laughing about something, then the pop of a previously un-pulled party cracker. Oh, _that’s_ where the streamers came from...

“I’m actually straight,” Dean said, even though the word didn’t feel right. “Kind of. I like girls in the way Dad would’ve approved of, up to and including _not_ falling in love.”

Yeah, that felt more accurate. Granted, it had been over a decade since Dean had been with a woman, his excuse being that college got in the way, when in actual fact—

Dean’s train of thought stopped dead, and his hands paused their dish-washing. He stared at a tile backing the sink and examined a single, solitary thought: _Oh, God. I think I’m asexual._

“Dean?” Mary asked, concerned by Dean’s silence.

 _It’s all right,_ Dean told himself. _Nothing to panic about. You’re asexual. Just chill._

Dean’s breath released, and he relaxed. Blinking, he nodded, assured of what he said. “I _was_ into women. And I would get attracted to men in the ‘you’re a handsome devil’ way—” Mary laughed, and Dean kept on, “but there was always that possibility that I _could_ fall in love, you know? There were some guys I’ve met that made me wonder...” Dean blinked away the thought of Victor. “But there was Cas, and it was him.”

“You’re in love?”

“I – think so, yeah. Feels awesome. A crush is like, four months, right? But I’ve known Cas five, and he still makes me all gooey inside. So.” Dean beamed, pulling a clean ladle out of the faucet’s splash, setting it amongst all the other tools he’d used today.

“I’m proud of you,” Mary said, her hand against Dean’s shoulder, rubbing him through the cowboy shirt. “Must’ve taken a lot of bravery to stand up there and kiss him like that. I hope he agreed beforehand. You realise this whole thing could get messy, don’t you? He’s got his public image to uphold.”

Dean turned the faucet off and grabbed the towel Mary handed him. “He didn’t exactly agree to being kissed centre-stage, I probably deserve a whack upside the head for that. But he was pleased with it, and we’d agreed about coming out together...” Dean rolled his shoulder in a shrug, resting his ass against the cupboard door under the sink. Mary stood in front of him, a smile lifting her soft cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said, with a tone that caught Dean’s attention. “For saying the word ‘gay’. I didn’t know any blanket term that would’ve included the other... branches of sexuality. Except for ‘ _queer_ ’,” she said in a whisper. “But I didn’t want to say that.”

Dean smirked. “It’s fine. Guess some people might not wanna hear that word.”

Mary nodded, her concern now validated. Dean flipped the towel to rest over the dripping dishes, and stepped forward to hug Mary, her small frame wrapped up in his arms.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thanks for being awesome.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Mary said, then laughed when Dean groaned.

“It’s not your job,” Dean said. “You do it because you care.” He looked her in the eye and said some very important words, for her and for him: “You do it because you’re full of love, and you want to show the world how awesome life can be, even if it sucks.” He tipped his head. “A smile and a hug can make all the difference. I learned that from you, Mom. And that’s why I’m with Cas now. That’s why he’s happy, that’s why he feels safe enough to talk to me – even let me kiss him.”

Dean let out a mouthful of air and continued, “Listen... I know I’m the spitting image of Dad, but you don’t ever need to worry about me growing up like my old man. I’m just like you.” He held his mother’s hand, then raised it to his lips to kiss, moved to see her eyes glazed with emotion. “And if I— If I ever have kids...” Dean swallowed, lips trembling as he looked down, “I’m gonna raise them like you raised me ‘n Sammy. Crazy and wild, against the rules, but still good enough that they get somewhere in life. Somewhere they can value the lot they have and still have a ways to go.”

Mary brushed a tear away from her cheek; Dean tracked the movement and saw her wobbly grin. He grinned back, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for the party, Mom. I – love you. I, um, I gotta get going, Cas needs to check on his cats.” He tried to ease past, but Mary caught his hand and pulled him back.

Dean watched her eyes sparkle, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she looked his way. “I love you too, Dean,” she said, and Dean smiled.

Meg drove them out to the chapel, idling the car on the sidewalk as Dean helped Castiel to his feet. Cas clutched at his injured leg with a grimace; Dean offered to carry him but was rebuffed with a laugh.

“You’re welcome to help me to my door, however,” Castiel said, limping ahead with his weight on his cane.

“I’ll just wait here then, shall I?” Meg called after them.

Dean glanced back over his shoulder and shrugged.

He watched the thorny plants pass by as he took Castiel through the rose garden, wondering why he could still smell the roses, despite the blooms being absent for the colder months. The smell must be in the honey, he supposed.

Castiel hadn’t talked much on their short car journey, and he wasn’t talking at all now. Dean was too tired for conversation, and he assumed Cas was the same. It had to be almost two a.m., much too late to be getting home.

Castiel opened the front door to his cottage, and was greeted by a frenzied Shilo, winding around his legs, mewling and sitting on her haunches to expose her pink teats and sagging belly. Castiel reached for the cat food and shook out a fair amount, then grasped the sideboard to stand straight.

“My physiotherapist says my leg ought to be feeling better already,” Castiel murmured, going to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. Dean loitered by the door, ready to leave. He wanted to hear what Castiel had to say, however, so he listened. Castiel’s eyes were drooping, and his voice slurred, “The physical damage is healing, so I’m starting to think the limp is psychosomatic. Yeah, it hurts, but people hold doors for me and help me bag groceries without being asked when I have this cane. I dread to think it, but I think my brain might be lying to me because it likes the respect I get, even when I’m not wearing my clerical collar. I feel—” He stood straight, eyes on the floor as the rest of him turned to Dean, “Guilty.” His eyes lifted, and Dean stared back. “I feel bad for wanting respect.”

Dean swallowed, looking back out through the open door. He saw car lights still waiting by the curb, and the distant rumble of the idling engine. Licking his lips slowly, Dean closed the door and pulled out his cellphone from his pocket. He dialled Meg’s number, holding it to his ear as it rang.

Meg picked up on the fourth ring. “ _What’s up, hot stuff?_ ”

“I’m gonna stay here for the night,” Dean said, meeting Castiel’s eyes, smiling when he saw Castiel slump in relief, releasing tension he probably didn’t realise he’d been keeping bottled up. “There’s a feline-free guest room, or so I hear.” Castiel nodded.

“ _You trust me with the car?_ Your _car? It still has leftover party food in it!_ ”

Dean smirked. “I’ll get that food back later. Come on, you passed your driving test, didn’t you? You got some learning still to do but—” he paused to sneeze, the continued his sentence where he’d left it, “I trust you to get yourself home in one piece. And hey, I’ve almost got enough for my Chevy. What am I meant to do with a crappy Toyota then, huh?”

“ _You cannot possibly—_ ”

“Car’s yours, Meg,” Dean said. “Pick me up tomorrow and I’ll get some forms signed.” He was grinning, and grinned even more when he heard Meg lost for words, starting and stopping various grateful noises until she finally settled on a giggle, which was quite unlike her.

“ _Thank you,_ ” she whispered, and Dean rolled his eyes, which was a reaction mostly for show. He winked at Cas, who was eating a pot of fruit yoghurt, another one sitting on the side for Dean to eat when he was done talking.

“ _I’ll be by tomorrow,_ ” Meg said, unable to hide the jitter in her voice. “ _Eleven?_ ”

“Eleven, really?” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “That’s enough time for a lie-in and a leisurely breakfast _and_ a shower.”

“ _Doesn’t mean I like you,_ ” Meg said.

“Never even crossed my mind,” Dean smiled, rubbing a cat-induced itch out of his eyes. “Go on, get yourself to bed. Don’t forget to signal your turnings. I know it’s dark and the middle of the night but you still gotta obey the rules, all right?”

“ _Gotcha. ‘Night, Dean. Have fun with that blue-eyed honeybunch of yours._ ”

Dean gazed at Cas, who had now picked up Shilo and was cuddling her very gently. “Night,” Dean said, ending the call. A few seconds later he heard the _vroom_ of Meg driving off, and he saw the headlights flicker past trees through the window.

“I think,” Castiel said, putting his cat down, “I need a shower before I get to bed. Is there anything you need?”

Dean shook his head. “Toothbrush or mouthwash maybe.”

Castiel nodded, and led the way upstairs. Dean snatched up his yoghurt and spoon, then followed.

He got ready for bed in the upstairs bathroom while Castiel showered downstairs. There was a shower upstairs but apparently the house had problems with hot water and defying gravity, so the hot water only worked downstairs. Dean eyed the upstairs shower with vehement dislike, resolving a plan to one day lay these wrongs to rest. “Spring project,” Dean said, pointing at the shower and its 1950s-styled tiling. “Mark my words, I will be back.”

He undressed in the guest bedroom, which was all brown floorboards and peeling floral wallpaper, one single bed with yet more floral designs. It was like Mary Poppins lived here at one point and her carpet bag oozed into the upholstery.

Dean set his cowboy hat at a jaunty angle on the bedpost, smiling at how comfortably it hung there. This place was cosy now Cas had turned a fan heater on. It gushed warmth across the floor, and Dean stood in front of it and let his toes be serenaded.

Eventually he turned the heater off, as the faulty electricity rendered it a fire hazard if he left it running overnight. He turned the room light off and slunk in between the cold yet incredibly smooth cotton sheets, sighing at the weirdly comforting quiver of the mattress.

He could see moonlight through a gap in the curtain, but it didn’t bother him like it would at home. This was a nice place. Smelled old and musty, but with the smell of Cas mixed in, it was homey.

Dean was on the verge of falling asleep when he heard the squeak of a floorboard outside in the corridor. He was mentally preparing to get up and poke his head out to say goodnight to Cas, when the door creaked open.

“Dean?” came a whisper.

“I’m awake,” Dean replied, rolling onto his front to face Castiel. Dean was only wearing boxers, and the smooth sheets helped him glide forward to rest his elbows on the pillow.

Castiel tiptoed into the room then shut the door, blotting out a far-away light from another part of the house. “It’s very warm in here.”

“Yeah, that heater’s pretty effective.”

“My room is cold now, the heater is usually in there.”

“Will the cats be okay without it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Castiel chuckled, slinking to stand near the bed, moonlight showing the muscular swell of his bare arms and the threadbare towel around his waist. “Kittens are hardier than I am when it comes to sleeping in the cold. They have... other bodies to snuggle against.”

Dean started to smile, and he rolled onto his back, pressing himself closer to the wall so there was room for Castiel in the bed. “I could do with a snuggle too, couldn’t you?”

Castiel let out a harsh breath, dropping his towel and sinking into the bed next to Dean. Dean held out his arms and embraced Cas when he got close, hearts aligned, then mouths. Dean let Castiel kiss him with his toothpaste-fresh mouth, licking into Dean’s with his agile tongue.

“Mmmmnh,” Dean moaned, so comfortable in the bed he felt like he was part of it. Castiel nosed him away, then kissed him again on the cheek. “Cas... God, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For... everything,” Dean said, kissing Castiel’s throat. “Letting me stay here, for one thing. For talking to me. Confiding in me, crap like that. I probably need people to trust me as much as you need to trust people. It’s like a weight off my chest, you know? Plus, knowing you’re available for hugs is the best bonus I can think of.”

“You don’t mind that I’m naked?”

“No,” Dean said, hand in the small of Castiel’s back. “Christ, you’re so warm.” That was the fatigue talking now, he was still awake enough to recognise it.

He took a deep breath, ready to fall asleep again, but he made his brain get his words out before he could forget them overnight. “By the way... What you said about respect, before... You got the respect of the people who matter. Anyone who decides you’re not worth talking to ‘cause you wear the Road Runner on your shirt, or you think bisexual people are real people too, or if you tossed the crappy hand you got dealt in life and decided to make your own deck – whatever – there’s still people who care, all right? You met lots of ‘em tonight. And my mom, she’ll be like your mom too. And we love you.” Dean rolled on top of Castiel and put a final kiss on his chest, then rested his chin there, smiling at him in the darkness. “ _I_ love you.”

Castiel stretched his fingers through Dean’s hair, stroking it behind his ears. “I love you, as well.”

Dean purred deep in his throat, nuzzling his cheek to Cas’ chest to hear his heart. He tried to say goodnight, but managed a vague utterance before slipping away into the warm emptiness of dreamless sleep.

 

 

Castiel almost tripped over a dust sheet on his way out of the house. He kicked it aside with a strong leg, then paused to pet his cat, followed by each of her six-month-old kittens in turn. They bumped and tumbled around his shoes, pleased to have his attention. They were nearly as big as their mother now, and they’d all developed incredibly energetic personalities. He was going to miss them – the plan was to give them away this Sunday at the chapel. Castiel had a strong suspicion that Meg might try and glean all of them if possible – she’d spent more time with the kittens than Castiel, and she didn’t even live with them.

With a smile, Castiel straightened up, making sure he didn’t have fur on his clothes. “I’ll see you later, Shilo,” he said, then stepped out through the front door.

The door clunked closed behind him. Even though it had been a week since Dean applied the fresh paint, Castiel could still smell the bitter vapour; it seemed determined to linger.

Castiel turned towards the path, then took another moment to stand on the porch and breathe in, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, eyes closing to block out the watery morning sun.

The air smelled like blossom – and so it should: the petunias in the flowerbed flaunted their young faces in the sun, while the elm trees’ branches hung heavy, laden with greeny-white blooms and birds’ nests. Sleepy bees buzzed around for the first time after last night’s rain.

Castiel exhaled, smiling. The sky was grey, but clearing to blue. It ought to be a pleasant day. He prayed it _would_ be a pleasant day.

Castiel wandered the path below the elm trees, looking up to check the bees. They seemed excited for the new season, hurrying about all over the garden to collect their pollen. Castiel wasn’t even at the oak tree before he smelled the roses, their scent damp and warm, hanging in the motionless air. The atmosphere hummed with insects and new life, chirping with birdsong.

Springtime was such a hopeful part of the year. Castiel felt hopeful, too.

He reached the graveyard, then the roses, fingers trailing against flourishing red petals, shaking droplets to the ground, cool liquid clinging to his skin. He smiled, then looked up past the chapel to the road.

Dean’s ‘67 Chevy Impala waited at the curb, engine off. Its black roof gleamed with half-run water droplets collected overnight, and inside, Castiel saw the silhouette of Dean in the driver’s seat, head bowed as he read from a thin collection of white pages. Castiel smiled to himself, closing the gate behind him and making his way to the passenger seat.

He opened the door latch and folded himself in, sighing as the well-cared-for leather creaked and took his weight.

“Hey,” Dean said, flipping down the top sheet of the sermon he was reading. He fiddled with the staple in the corner, then opened up the sheets again, folding two pages back. “This thing’s pretty good. I made some notes at the side, you might wanna look those over before this evening.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, leaning closer to kiss Dean’s cheek. Dean turned his head to catch his lips, and they smiled against each other, holding still for a few seconds. Castiel leaned back again, then lifted a hand to touch Dean’s necktie. “You look very handsome in a suit.”

Dean looked down. “What, this old thing?” He grinned, eyelashes catching the sunlight as he beamed at Castiel. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

Castiel hummed a laugh, running his palms down the thighs of his suit pants. He felt the scar tissue in his thigh pulling at his skin, but it didn’t hurt.

Dean cleared his throat. “You know, I, uh... expected you to wear your priest outfit. With the white neck thing, and the black-shirt-black-jacket combo. I ironed it for you and everything.”

Castiel shrugged. “I put it on but it didn’t feel right. I want people to see _me_ , not my religion or my job.”

“So you went with the cravat?”

Castiel caught his eye, seeing that mischievous, teasing look Dean did so well. “Yes, Dean, I put on a cravat. I happen to enjoy century-old fashion as much as you do, and I think – I hope – so long as I look presentable, the jury will move in my favour.”

“They’re gonna move in your favour no matter what you do. This guy stabbed you, Cas; he’s there to get a sentence, not to plead not-guilty.”

Castiel sighed slowly, sinking down in his seat and leaning his head against the backrest. He gazed up at the ceiling of the car, where reflected sunlight grazed the domed taupe and turned it a faint golden colour. “I’m very glad you’re coming with me, Dean. This would be so much more stressful if I had to do this alone.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, and Castiel looked over. Dean swallowed, a quick smile gracing his beautiful face. “I think I recall making you a promise,” he said softly, sliding a hand off the sermon and towards Castiel’s body, slipping his fingers into his palm to hold on. “Support you when you need it.”

“And even when I don’t need it,” Castiel added. “My cottage was perfectly fine before you ripped out its pipework and started remodelling its wires.”

“Guts and veins, Cas,” Dean smirked. “It’s like surgery, but on a patient that doesn’t tell you it’s feeling sick. That wreck was about ready to fall down before I came in.”

Castiel moved closer, resting his cheek on Dean’s shoulder. Dean chuckled, turning his head to kiss Castiel’s temple. Castiel kissed him back, then spoke to him in a low voice, “I am grateful. I like it better now, and I like that I can have baths in the evening.”

“Same.” Dean’s smile began to grow. “Hey, what say, after the court session today, you and I come back and unwind?”

Castiel perked his head up. “Share a bath?”

“Sure. Test out the pipes.”

“Do you mean the house’s pipes or ours?”

Dean scoffed, eyes crinkling up. “There’s that six-percent allosexual again.”

Castiel shook his head, reaching for his sermon print-outs. “I met a young woman in church the other day – you remember, I told you?”

“Yeah, she read your blog or something.”

Castiel nodded, skim-reading the notes Dean had made in the margins. “She wanted to tell me about her experiences with asexuality. We got to talking – it was fun, she was lovely. She eventually revealed she doesn’t like kissing, and doesn’t fall in love. And I told her – well... I told her I do. And I told her there’s other things I’m curious about doing with you alone, and she said I can still count myself as asexual. It’s a very variable, inclusive identity. So,” Castiel shrugged, looking sideways at Dean, “I’m not allosexual at all. A hundred percent asexual.”

“But you’re curious?”

Castiel shrugged, then shook his head. “Interested, yes. I don’t want to put my fantasies into practice, however.”

Dean ran his hand back through Castiel’s hair, meeting his eye and smiling. “How about, while we share that bath, you tell me about those fantasies.” He tilted his head in a flirty way. “And maybe I’ll tell you some of mine.”

Castiel felt yet another glimmer of elation, and pushed against Dean to kiss his mouth, just once. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Castiel took a deep breath, sighed, then flipped his sermon closed. “What time is it?”

Dean shook his watch out from under the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Almost ten-thirty. Got half an hour to get there.”

Castiel nodded again. “I’m... nervous.”

“It’s a courtroom, Cas; being nervous is perfectly normal,” Dean said, laying his hand on Castiel’s thigh. “You’re gonna be okay. You can hold my hand if you need to.”

Castiel hummed, sliding his arms under Dean’s armpits and drawing him in for a hug. Dean gave a quiet chuckle, cheek resting comfortably on Castiel’s shoulder. They fit snugly against each other, wide bodies and a good, firm grasp. Castiel always felt better after hugging Dean, it was often better than kissing.

Castiel soon relaxed back, and smiled when Dean nudged his stubbly cheek with his knuckles.

“Let’s go serve justice,” Dean said. “For the deliverance of stab victims everywhere.”

Castiel held Dean’s hand and slid his weight back to his own side of the car, still smiling at Dean as he brought the engine to life and made it roar. They pulled out into the driving lane, and immediately Castiel’s eye was drawn by the splendid blaze of sunshine in the road.

Oh, it was beautiful. God’s presence never did feel more impressive.

Castiel now knew, beyond a doubt, that this going to be a very wonderful day.

{ **_the end_** }

**Author's Note:**

> [Rebloggable graphic thing!](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/101460362030/preacher-comfort-almaasi-43k-m-human-au)  
>  Please leave kudos if you enjoyed the fic! Kudos make me incredibly happy c:


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